HER  EYES  TURNED  TOWARDS  IT  MECHANICALLY  BECAUSE   IT    CON- 
TAINED .    .  .   THE  MAN  OF  WHOM  SHE  WAS  THINKING  " 


PRISONERS 

FAST   BOUND    IN    MISERY   AND    IRON 

BY 
MARY   CHOLMONDELEY 


Author  of 

"Red  Pottage" 


'But  for  failing  of  love  on  our 
part,  therefore  is  all  our  travail." 
— JULIAN  OF  NOBWICH. 


DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  .•.•.•.'.•.•  MCMVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  1906,  BY 
COLVEB  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPTBIGHT,    1906,    BY 

MARY  CHOLMONDELY 

Published,  September,  1906 


To 

My  Brother 


2134884 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Her  eyes  turned  towards  it  mechanically 
because  it  contained  .  .  .  the  man  of 
whom  she  was  thinking "  .  .  .  Frontispiece 

"  A  'deathlike  silence  followed  the  delegate's 

words"       r., Page  36 

"  *  Is    she    worth    it  ?  '    he   said   with   sudden 

passion "      r.-       ........       "46 

"  *  You  are  all  blinder  one  than  the  other,  that 

it's  Andrea  I'm  grieving  for '"      .      .      .       "      80 

"  If  Fay  had  come  in  then  he  would  have  killed 
her,  done  her  to  death  with  the  chains  he 
had  worn  so  patiently  for  her  sake  "  .  .  "146 

"  Fay  noticed  for  the  first  time  how  lightly 
Wentworth  walked,  how  square  his  shoulders 
were"  "  184 


CHAPTER    I 

Grim  Fate  was  tender,  contemplating  you, 

And  fairies  brought  their  offerings  at  your  birth; 

You  take  the  rose-leaf  pathway  as  your  due, 
Your  rightful  meed  the  choicest  gifts  of  earth. 

— ARTHUR  C.  LEGGE. 

FAY  stood  on  her  balcony,  and  looked  over  the  ilexes 
of  her  villa  at  Frascati;  out  across  the  grey-green  of 
the  Campagna  to  the  little  compressed  city  which  goes 
by  the  great  name  of  Rome. 

How  small  it  looked,  what  a  huddled  speck  with  a 
bubble  dome,  to  be  represented  by  so  stupendous  a 
name! 

She  gazed  at  it  without  seeing  it.  Her  eyes  turned 
towards  it  mechanically  because  it  contained  somewhere 
within  its  narrow  precincts  the  man  of  whom  she  was 
thinking,  of  whom  she  was  always  thinking. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  Fay — the  Duchess  of  Colle 
Alto — was  an  Englishwoman,  in  spite  of  her  historic 
Italian  name. 

She  had  the  look  of  perfect  though  not  robust  health, 
the  reflection  over  her  whole  being  of  a  childhood  spent 
much  in  the  open  air.  She  was  twenty-three,  but  her 
sweet  fair  face,  with  its  delicate  irregular  features, 
was  immature,  childish.  It  gave  no  impression  of  ex- 
perience, or  thought,  or  of  having  met  life.  She  was 
obviously  not  of  those  who  criticise  or  judge  them- 
selves. In  how  many  faces  we  se«  the  conflict,  or  the 


2  PRISONERS 

remains  of  conflict  with  a  dual  nature.  Fay,  as  she  was 
called  by  her  family,  seemed  all  of  a  piece  with  herself. 
Her  unharassed  countenance  showed  it,  especially  when, 
as  at  this  moment,  she  looked  harassed.  Anxiety  was  evi- 
dently a  foreign  element.  It  sat  ill  upon  her  smooth 
face,  as  if  it  might  slide  off  at  any  moment.  Fay's 
violet  eyes  were  her  greatest  charm.  She  looked  at  you 
with  a  deprecating,  timid,  limpid  gaze,  in  which  no  guile 
existed,  any  more  than  steadfastness,  any  more  than 
unselfishness,  any  more  than  courage. 

Fay  had  come  into  the  world  anxious  to  please.  She 
had  never  shown  any  particular  wish  to  give  pleasure. 
If  she  had  been  missed  out  of  her  somewhat  oppressed 
and  struggling  home  when  she  married,  it  is  probable 
that  the  sense  of  her  absence  was  tinged  by  relief. 

She  had  never  intended  to  marry  the  Duke  of  Colle 
Alto.  It  is  difficult  to  say  why  that  sedate  distinguished 
personage  married  her. 

Fay's  face  had  a  very  sweet  and  endearing  promise 
in  it  which  drew  men's  eyes  after  her.  I  don't  know 
what  it  meant,  and  they  did  not  know  either,  but  they 
instinctively  lessened  the  distance  between  themselves 
and  it.  A  very  thin  string  will  tow  a  very  heavy  body 
if  there  is  no  resistance,  and  the  pace  is  slow.  The 
duke  looked  at  Fay,  who  was  at  that  moment  being 
taken  out  for  her  first  season  by  her  grandmother,  Lady 
Bellairs.  Fay  tried  to  please  him,  as  was  her  wont 
with  all  except  men  with  beards.  She  liked  to  have  him 
in  attendance.  Her  violet  eyes  lighted  up  with  genuine 
pleasure  when  he  came  to  see  her. 

It  is  perhaps  difficult  for  the  legions  of  women  who 
do  not  please  easily,  and  for  the  handful  whose  interests 


PRISONERS  3 

lie  outside  themselves,  and  who  are  not  desirous  of  pleas- 
ing indiscriminately,  it  is  difficult  for  either  to  realise 
the  passionate  desire  to  please  which  possesses  and 
saps  the  life  of  some  of  their  sisters.  Admiration  with 
them  is  not  a  luxury,  any  more  than  a  hot-water  bottle 
is  a  luxury  to  the  aged,  or  a  foot  rest  to  a  gouty  foot. 
It  is  a  necessity  of  life.  After  a  becoming  interval, 
the  interstices  of  which  had  been  filled  with  flowers, 
the  duke  proposed  to  Lady  Bellairs  for  Fay's  hand. 
Fay  did  not  wish  to  marry  him.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
her  ideal.  Neither  did  she  wish  to  remain  unmarried, 
neither  did  she  wish  to  part  with  her  grave,  distinguished 
suitor  who  was  an  ornament  to  herself.  And  she  was 
distinctly  averse  to  living  any  longer  in  the  paternal 
home,  lost  in  a  remote  crease  in  a  Hampshire  down. 
Poor  women  have  only  too  frequently  to  deal  with  these 
complicated  situations,  with  which  blundering,  egotistic 
male  minds  are  seldom  in  perfect  sympathy. 

Fay  had  never  willingly  relinquished  any  of  the  men 
who  had  cared  for  her,  and  some  had  cared  much.  These 
last  had  as  a  rule  torn  themselves  away  from  her,  leav- 
ing hearts,  or  other  fragments  of  themselves,  behind, 
and  were  not  to  be  cajoled  back  again,  even  by  one  of 
her  little  gilt-edged  notes.  But  the  duke  did  not  break 
away.  He  had  selected  her,  she  pleased  him,  he  desired 
to  marry  an  Englishwoman.  He  had  the  approval  of 
Lady  Bellairs. 

The  day  came  when  Fay  was  suddenly  and  adroitly 
confronted  with  the  fact  that  she  must  marry  him,  or 
lose  him. 

Many  confirmed  bachelors  who  openly  regret  that 
they  have  never  come  across  a  woman  to  whom  they 


4  PRISONERS 

cared  to  tie  themselves  for  life  might  be  in  a  position 
to  descant  on  the  inability  of  wives  to  enter  into  their 
husbands'  inmost  feelings,  if  only  they — the  bachelors 
— had  known  on  a  past  occasion  how  to  act  with  sudden 
promptitude  on  the  top  of  patience. 

The  duke  played  the  waiting  game,  and  then  hit 
hard.  He  had  coolly  allowed  himself  to  be  trifled  with, 
until  the  moment  arrived  when  it  did  not  suit  him  to  be 
trifled  with  any  longer. 

The  marriage  had  not  proved  a  marked  success,  nor 
an  entire  failure.  The  duke  was  an  irreproachable  hus- 
band, but,  like  many  men  who  marry  when  they  are  no 
longer  young,  he  aged  suddenly  after  marriage.  He 
quickly  became  bald  and  stout.  His  tact  except  in  these 
two  particulars  remained  flawless.  He  never  allowed 
his  deep  chagrin  to  appear  when,  three  years  after  his 
marriage,  he  still  remained  without  a  son  to  continue 
his  historic  name. 

He  was  polite  to  his  wife  at  all  times,  mildly  sarcastic 
as  to  her  extravagance.  Fay  was  not  exorbitantly  ex- 
travagant ;  but  then  the  duke  was  not  exorbitantly  rich. 
One  of  Fay's  arts,  as  unconscious  as  that  of  a  kitten, 
was  to  imply  past  unhappiness,  spoken  of  with  a  cheer- 
ful resignation  which  greatly  endeared  her  to  others 
— and  to  herself.  The  duke  had  understood  that  she 
had  not  had  a  very  happy  home,  and  he  had  honestly 
endeavoured  to  make  her  new  home  happy.  In  the  early 
days  of  his  marriage  he  made  many  small  experiments 
in  the  hope  of  pleasing  the  pretty  creature  who  had 
thrown  in  her  lot  with  his.  Possibly  also  there  may 
have  been  other  subtle,  patient  attempts  to  win  some- 
what from  her  of  another  nature.  Possibly  there  may 


PRISONERS  5 

have  been  veiled  disappointments,  and  noiseless  retreats 
under  cover  of  night. 

However  these  things  may  have  been,  after  the  first 
year  Fay  made  the  discovery  that  she  was  unhappily 
married.  The  duke  was  kind,  in  kindness  he  never 
failed;  but  he  was  easily  jealous — at  least  she 
thought  so ;  and  he  appeared  quite  unable  to  see  in 
their  true  light  her  amicable  little  flirtations  with  his 
delightful  compatriots.  After  one  or  two  annoying 
incidents,  in  which  the  compatriots  had  shown  several 
distinctly  un-English  characteristics,  the  duke  became, 
in  his  wife's  eyes,  tiresome,  strict,  a  burden.  Perhaps, 
also,  she  felt  the  Englishwoman's  surprise  at  the  in- 
adequate belief  in  a  woman's  power  of  guarding  her 
own  virtue,  which  remains  in  some  nations  an  hereditary 
masculine  instinct.  She  felt  that  she  could  take  care 
of  herself,  which  was,  in  reality,  just  what  she  could 
not  do,  as  her  imperturbable,  watchful  husband  was  well 
aware. 

But  was  he  aware  of  the  subject  of  her  thoughts  at 
this  moment?  It  was  more  than  probable  that  he  was. 
But  Fay  had  not  the  faintest  suspicion  that  he  had 
guessed  anything. 

One  of  her  many  charms  was  a  certain  youthful  inno- 
cence of  mind,  which  imputed  no  evil  to  others,  which 
never  suspected  that  others  would  impute  it  to  her. 
Her  husband  was  wearisome.  He  looked  coldly  on  her 
if  she  smiled  on  young  men,  and  she  had  to  smile  at 
them  when  they  smiled  at  her.  But,  she  reasoned,  of 
course  all  the  time  he  really  knew  that  he  could  trust 
her  entirely.  There  was  no  harm  in  Fay's  nature,  no 
venom,  there  were  no  dark  places,  no  strong  passions, 


6  PRISONERS 

with  their  awful  possibilities  for  good  and  evil.  She 
had  already  given  much  pain  in  her  short  life,  but  inad- 
vertently. She  was  of  that  large  class  of  whom  it 
may  truly  be  said  when  evil  comes,  that  they  are  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning.  They  always  somehow 
gravitate  into  the  places  where  people  are  sinned 
against,  just  as  some  people  never  attend  a  cricket- 
match  without  receiving  a  ball  on  their  persons. 

And  now  trouble  had  come  upon  her.  She  had  at 
last  fallen  in  love.  I  would  not  venture  to  assert  that 
she  had  fallen  in  very  deep,  that  the  "  breakers  of  the 
boundless  deep  "  had  engulfed  her.  Some  of  us  make 
shipwreck  in  a  teacup  tempest,  and  when  our  serenity 
is  restored — there  is  nothing  calmer  than  a  teacup  after 
its  storm — our  experience  serves,  after  a  decent  inter- 
val, as  an  agreeable  fringe  to  our  confidential  con- 
versation. 

Anyhow,  Fay  had  fallen  in  love.  I  feel  bound  to  add 
that  for  some  time  before  that  event  happened  life  had 
become  intolerably  dull.  The  advent  to  Rome  of  her 
distant  connection,  Michael  Carstairs,  had  been  at  this 
juncture  a  source  of  delight  to  her.  She  had,  before 
her  marriage,  flirted  with  him  a  very  little — not  as  much 
as  she  could  have  wished;  but  Lady  Bellairs,  who  was 
fond  of  him,  had  promptly  intervened,  and  the  young 
man  had  disappeared  into  his  examinations.  That  was 
four  years  ago. 

In  reality  Fay  had  half -forgotten  him;  but  when 
she  saw  him  suddenly,  pale,  handsome,  distinguished, 
across  a  ballroom  in  Rome,  and,  after  a  moment's  un- 
certainty, realised  who  he  was,  she  felt  the  same  pleas- 
urable surprise,  soft  as  the  fall  of  dew,  which  pervades 


PRISONERS  7 

the  feminine  heart  when,  in  looking  into  an  unused 
drawer,  it  inadvertently  haps  upon  a  length  of  new 
ribbon,  bought,  carefully  put  away,  and  forgotten. 

Fay  went  gently  up  to  Michael,  conscious  of  her 
beauty  and  her  wonderful  jewels,  and  held  out  her  hand 
with  a  little  deprecating  smile. 

"  And  so  we  meet  again  at  last,"  she  said. 

He  turned  red  and  white. 

"  At  last,"  he  said  with  difficulty. 

She  looked  more  closely  at  him.  The  dreamy,  poetic 
face  had  chahged  during  those  four  years.  She  became 
dimly  aware  that  he  had  not  only  grown  from  a  youth 
into  a  man,  but  that  some  other  transformation  had 
been  painfully  wrought  in  him. 

Instinctively  her  beaming  face  became  grave  to  match 
his.  She  was  slow  to  see  what  others  were  feeling,  but 
quick  to  reflect  their  mood.  She  sighed  gently,  vaguely 
stirred,  in  spite  of  herself,  by  something — she  knew  not 
what — in  her  companion's  face. 

"  It  is  four  years  since  I  saw  you,"  she  said. 

And  from  her  lowered  voice  it  seemed  as  if  her  life 
were  rooted  in  memory  alone. 

"  Four  years,"  said  Michael,  who,  promising  young 
diplomat  as  he  was,  appeared  only  able  to  repeat  par- 
rot-wise her  last  words  after  her. 

A  pause. 

"  Do  you  know  my  husband?  " 

"  I  do  not." 

"  May  I  introduce  him  to  you?  " 

Fay  made  a  little  sign,  and  the  duke  approached, 
superb,  decorated,  dignified,  with  the  polished  pallor  as 
if  the  skin  were  a  little  too  tight,  which  is  the  Cha- 


8  PRISONERS 

rybdis    of    many    who    have    avoided    the    Scylla    of 
wrinkles. 

The  elder  Italian  and  the  grave,  fair,  young  English- 
man bowed  to  each  other,  were  made  known  to  each 
other. 

That  night  as  the  duke  drove  home  with  his  wife  he 
said  to  her  in  his  admirable  English : 

"  Your  young  cousin  is  an  enthusiast,  a  dreamer,  a 
sensitive,  what  your  Tennyson  calls  a  Sir  Galahad.     In 
Italy  we  make  of  such  men  a  priest,  a  cardinal.     He  is 
not  an  homme  d'affaires.     It  was  not  well  to  put  him 
into  diplomacy.    One  may  make  a  religion  of  art.    One 
may  even  for  a  time  make  a  religion  of  a  woman.    But 
of  the  English  diplomacy  one  does  not  make  a  religion." 
Fay   lay    awake   that   night.    From    a    disused  pig- 
eon-hole in  her  mind   she   drew   out   and  unfolded  to 
its   short  length  that   attractive   remnant,  that   half- 
forgotten  episode  of  her  teens.    She  remembered  every- 
thing— I   mean    everything   she    wished  to    remember. 
Michael's  face  had  recalled  it  all,  those  exquisite  days 
which  he  had  taken  so  much  more  seriously  than  she 
had,  the  sudden  ruthless  intervention  of  Lady  Bellairs, 
the  end  of  the  daydream.     Fay,  whose  attention  had 
been  adroitly  diverted  to  other  channels,  had  never  won- 
dered how  he  took  their  separation  at  the  time.     Now 
that  she  saw  him  again  she  was  aware  that  he  had  taken 
it — to  heart. 

During  that  sleepless  night  Fay  persuaded  herself 
that  Michael  had  not  been  alone  in  his  suffering.  She 
also  had  felt  the  parting  with  equal  poignancy. 

They  met  again  a  few  days  later  by  chance  in  an  old 
cloistered,  deserted  garden.  How  often  she  had  walked 


PRISONERS  9 

in  that  garden  as  she  was  doing  now  with  English 
friends !  His  presence  gave  the  place  its  true  sig- 
nificance. They  met  as  those  who  have  between  them 
the  bond  of  a  common  sorrow. 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  all  these  four 
years?  "  she  asked  him,  as  they  wandered  somewhat 
apart. 

"  I  have  been  working." 

"  You  never  came  to  say  good-bye  before  you  went 
to  that  place  in  Germany  to  study." 

"  I  was  told  I  had  better  not  come." 

"  I  suppose  grandmamma  told  you  that." 

"  She  did,  most  kindly  and  wisely." 

A  pause. 

She  was  leaning  in  the  still  May  sunshine  against  an 
old  grey  tomb  of  carved  stone.  Two  angels  with 
spread  wings  upheld  the  defaced  inscription.  Above  it, 
over  it,  round  it,  like  desire  impotently  defying  death, 
a  flood  of  red  roses  clambered  and  clung.  Were  they 
trying  to  wake  some  votary  who  slept  below?  A  great 
twisted  sentinel  cypress  kept  its  own  dark  counsel. 
Against  its  shadow  Fay's  figure  in  her  white  gossamer 
gown  showed  more  ethereal  and  exquisite  even  than  in 
memory.  She  seemed  at  one  with  this  wonderful,  pas- 
sionate southern  spring,  which  trembled  between  rapture 
and  anguish.  The  red  roses  and  the  white  irises  were 
everywhere.  Even  the  unkept  grass  in  which  her  light 
feet  were  set  was  wild  with  white  daisies. 

"  Do  you  remember  our  last  walk  on  the  down  that 
day  in  spring?  "  she  said  suddenly. 

She  had  forgotten  it  until  last  night. 

"  I  remember  it." 


10  PRISONERS 

"  It  was  May  then.     It  is  May  again  now." 

He  did  not  answer.  The  roses  left  off  calling  to  the 
dead,  and  suddenly  enfolded  the  two  young  grave 
creatures  leaning  against  the  tomb,  in  a  gust  of  hot 
perfume. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  Fay's  voice  was  tremulous, 
"  how  you  gave  me  a  bit  of  pink  may?  " 

"  I  remember." 

"  I  was  looking  at  it  yesterday.  It  is  not  very  pink 
now." 

It  was  true.  In  all  shallow  meanings,  and  when  she 
had  not  had  time  to  get  her  mind  into  a  tangle,  Fay 
was  perfectly  truthful.  She  had  yesterday  been  turn- 
ing over  the  contents  of  a  little  cedar  box  in  which  she 
kept  her  childish  possessions,  and  she  had  found  in  an 
envelope  a  brown  unsightly  ghost  of  what  had  once 
been  a  may-blossom  on  a  Hampshire  down.  She  had 
remembered  the  vivid  sunshine,  the  wheeling  seagull,  the 
soft  south  wind  blowing  in  from  the  sea.  Michael  had 
kissed  her  under  the  thin  dappled  shade  of  the  flower- 
ing tree,  and  she  had  kissed  him  back. 

Michael's  eyes  turned  for  a  long  moment  to  the  yellow 
weather-stained  arches  of  the  cloister,  and  then  he 
looked  full  at  Fay  with  a  certain  peculiar  detached 
glance  which  had  first  made  her  endeavour  to  attract 
him.  There  is  a  look  in  a  man's  face  which  women  like 
Fay  cannot  endure,  because  it  means  independence  of 
them. 

"  I  thought,"  he  said,  with  the  grave  simplicity  which 
apparently  was  unchangeable  in  him  whatever  else 
might  change,  "  that  it  was  only  I  who  remembered. 
It  has  always  been  a  comfort  to  me  that  any  unhappi- 


PRISONERS  11 

ness  which  my  want  of  forethought,  my — my  culpable 
selfishness  may  have  caused,  was  borne  by  myself  alone." 

"  I  was  unhappy  too,"  she  said,  speaking  as  simply 
as  he.  She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly  as  she  said  it. 
There  was  a  wet  glint  in  her  deep  violet  eyes.  She  be- 
lieved absolutely  at  that  moment  that  she  had  been  as 
unhappy  as  he  for  four  years.  There  was  no  suspicion 
in  her  mind  that  she  was  not  genuine.  Only  the  sincere 
ever  doubt  their  sincerity.  Fay  never  doubted  hers. 
She  felt  what  she  said,  and  the  sweet  eyes  turned  on 
Michael  had  the  transparent  fixity  of  a  child's. 

They  walked  unsteadily  back  to  the  others  and  spoke 
no  more  to  each  other  that  day.  Conscience  pricked 
Fay  that  night. 

"  Leave  him  alone,"  it  said.  "  You  have  both  suf- 
fered. Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead." 

Fay's  conscience  was  a  wonderfully  adaptable  one 
with  a  tendency  to  poetic  quotation.  It  showed  con- 
siderable tact  in  adopting  her  point  of  view.  Never- 
theless from  that  generally  fallacious  standpoint  it 
often  gave  her  quite  respectable  advice.  "  Leave  him 
alone,"  said  the  hoodwinked  monitor.  "  You  are  mar- 
ried and  Andrea  is  easily  jealous.  Michael  is  sensitive, 
and  has  been  deeply  in  love  with  you.  Don't  stir  him 
up  to  fall  in  love  with  you  again.  Leave  him  alone." 

The  young  British  matron  waxed  indignant.  Was 
she,  Fay,  the  kind  of  woman  to  forget  her  duty  to  her 
husband?  Was  Michael  the  kind  of  man  to  make  love 
to  a  married  woman?  Such  an  idea  was  preposterous, 
unjust  to  both  of  them.  And  people  would  begin  to 
talk  at  once  if  she  and  her  cousin  (Michael  was  only 
a  distant  connection)  were  studiously  to  avoid  each 


12  PRISONERS 

other,  if  they  could  not  exchange  a  few  words  simply 
like  old  friends.  No  one  had  suggested  an  attitude  of 
rigid  avoidance;  but  throughout  life  Fay  had  always 
convinced  herself  of  the  advisability  of  a  certain  wished- 
for  course  by  conjuring  up,  only  to  discard  it,  the  ex- 
treme and  most  obviously  senseless  opposite  of  that 
course — as  the  only  alternative. 

She  imagined  her  husband  saying:  "Why  won't  you 
ask  Mr.  Carstairs  to  dinner?  He  is  your  cousin  and 
he  is  charming.  What  can  the  reason  be  that  you  so 
earnestly  refuse  to  meet  him?  "  And  then  Andrea,  who 
always  "  got  ideas  into  his  head,"  would  begin  to  sus- 
pect that  there  had  been  "  something  "  between  them. 

No.  No.  It  would  be  far  wiser  to  meet  naturally 
now  and  then,  and  to  treat  Michael  like  an  old  friend. 
Fay  had  a  somewhat  muffled  conception  of  what  an  old 
friend  might  be.  After  deep  thought  she  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  her  duty  to  ask  Michael  fre- 
quently to  the  house.  When  Fay  once  recognised  a 
duty  she  performed  it  without  delay. 

She  met  with  an  unexpected  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
its  adequate  performance.  The  obstacle  was  Michael. 

The  young  man  came  once,  and  then  again  after  an 
interval  of  several  months,  but  apparently  nothing 
would  induce  him  to  frequent  the  house. 

Fay  did  not  recognise  her  boyish  eager  lover  in 
the  grave  sedate  man,  old  of  his  age,  who  had  replaced 
him.  His  dignified  and  quite  unobtrusive  resistance, 
which  had  not  indifference  at  its  core,  added  an  intense, 
a  feverish,  interest  to  Fay's  life.  She  saw  that  he  still 
cared  for  her,  and  that  he  did  not  intend  to  wound  him- 
self a  second  time.  He  had  had  enough.  She  put  out 


PRISONERS  13 

all  her  little  transparent  arts  during  the  months  that 
followed.     The  duke  watched. 

She  had  implied  to  her  husband  with  a  smile  that  she 
had  not  been  very  happy  at  home.  She  implied  to 
Michael  with  a  smile  that  it  was  not  the  duke's  fault, 
but  that  she  was  not  very  happy  in  her  married  life, 
that  he  did  not  care  much  about  her,  and  that  they  had 
but  few  tastes  in  common.  Each  lived  their  own  life 
on  amicable  terms,  but  somewhat  apart  from  each  other. 
She  owned  that  she  had  hoped  for  something  rather 
different  in  marriage.  She  had,  it  seemed,  started  life 
with  a  very  exalted  ideal  of  married  life,  which  the 
duke's 

coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb. 

Michael  remained  outwardly  obdurate,  but  Inwardly 
he  weakened.  His  tender  adoration  and  respect  for 
Fay,  wounded  and  mutilated  though  they  had  been, 
had  nevertheless  survived  what  in  many  minds  must  have 
proved  their  death-blow.  He  still  believed  implicitly 
all  she  said. 

But  to  him  her  marriage  was  the  impassable  barrier, 
a  barrier  as  enfranchisable  as  the  brown  earth  on  a 
coffin  lid. 

After  many  months  Fay  at  last  vaguely  realised 
his  attitude  towards  her.  She  told  herself  that  she 
respected  it,  that  it  was  just  what  she  wished,  was  in 
fact  the  result  of  her  own  tactfully  expressed  wishes. 
She  seemed  to  remember  things  she  had  said  which 
would  have  led  him  to  behave  just  as  he  had  done.  And 
then  she  turned  heaven  and  earth  to  regain  her  personal 


14  PRISONERS 

ascendency  over  him.  She  never  would  have  regained 
it  if  an  accident  had  not  befallen  her.  She  fell  in  love 
with  him  during  the  process. 

The  day  came,  an  evil  day  for  Michael,  when  he 
could  no  longer  doubt  it,  when  he  was  not  permitted  to 
remain  in  doubt.  Who  shall  say  what  waves  of  bound- 
less devotion,  what  passionate  impulses  of  protection, 
of  compassion,  of  intense  longing  to  shield  her  from 
the  fire  which  had  devastated  his  own  youth,  passed 
in  succession  over  him  as  he  looked  at  the  delicate  little 
creature  who  was  to  him  the  only  real  woman  in  the 
world — all  the  rest  were  counterfeits — and  who  now,  as 
he  believed,  loved  him  as  he  had  long  loved  her. 

Michael  was  one  of  the  few  men  who  bear  through 
life  the  common  masculine  burden  of  a  profound  ignor- 
ance of  women,  coupled  with  an  undeviating  loyalty 
towards  them.  He  supposed  she  was  suffering  as  he 
had  suffered,  that  it  was  with  her  now  beside  the  foun- 
tain, under  the  ilexes  of  her  Italian  garden,  as  it  had 
been  with  him  during  these  five  intolerable  years. 

How  Fay  wept!  What  a  passion  of  tears,  till  her 
small  flower-like  face  was  bereft  of  all  beauty,  of  every- 
thing except  a  hideous  contraction  of  grief! 

He  stood  near  her,  not  touching  her,  in  anguish  far 
deeper  than  hers.  At  last  he  took  her  clenched  hand 
in  his. 

"  Do  not  grieve  so,"  he  said  brokenly.  "  It  is  not 
our  fault.  It  is  greater  than  either  of  us.  It  has 
come  upon  us  against  our  wills.  We  have  both  strug- 
gled. You  don't  know  how  I  have  struggled,  Fay, 
day  and  night  since  I  came  to  Rome.  But  I  have 
been  in  fault.  I  ought  never  to  have  come,  for  I 


PRISONERS  15 

knew  you  were  living  near  Rome.  But  I  did  not  know 
it  had  touched  you,  and  for  myself  I  had  hoped — I 
thought — that  it  was  past — in  as  far  as  it  could  pass — 
that  I  was  accustomed  to  it.  Listen,  Fay,  and  do  not 
cry  so  bitterly.  I  will  leave  Rome  at  once.  I  will  not 
see  you  again.  My  poor  darling,  we  have  come  to  a 
hard  place  in  life,  but  we  can  do  the  only  thing  left  to 
us — our  duty." 

Fay's  heart  contracted,  and  she  suddenly  ceased  sob- 
bing. She  had  never  thought  of  this  horrible  possibility 
that  he  would  leave  her. 

She  drew  the  hand  that  clasped  hers  to  her  lips  and 
held  it  tightly  against  her  breast. 

"  Don't  leave  me,"  she  stammered,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot,  from  sheer  terror  at  the  thought ;  "  I  will 
be  good.  I  will  do  what  is  right.  We  are  not  like  other 
people.  We  can  trust  each  other.  But  I  can't  live 
without  seeing  you  sometimes,  I  could  not  bear  it." 

He  withdrew  his  hand.  They  looked  wildly  into  each 
other's  eyes.  His  convulsed  face  paled  and  paled. 
Even  as  he  stood  before  her  she  knew  she  was  losing 
him,  that  something  was  tearing  him  from  her.  It  was 
as  certain  that  he  was  going  from  her  as  if  she  were 
standing  by  his  deathbed. 

He  kissed  her  suddenly. 

"  I  shall  not  come  back,"  he  said.  And  the  next  mo- 
ment he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    II 

Nous  passons  notre  vie  a  nous  forger  des  chaines,  et  a 
nous  plaindre  de  les  porter. — VALTOUR. 

FOB,  a  long  time  Fay  had  stood  on  her  balcony  looking 
out  towards  Rome,  while  the  remembrance  of  the  last 
few  months  pressed  in  upon  her. 

It  was  a  week  since  she  had  seen  Michael,  since  he  had 
said,  "  I  shall  not  come  back." 

And  in  the  meanwhile  she  had  heard  that  he  had  re- 
signed his  appointment,  and  was  leaving  Rome  at  once. 
She  had  never  imagined  that  he  would  act  so  quickly, 
with  such  determination.  She  had  vaguely  supposed 
that  he  would  send  in  his  resignation,  and  then  remain 
on.  In  novels  in  a  situation  like  theirs  the  man  never 
really  went  away,  or  if  he  did  he  came  back.  Fay  knew 
very  little  of  Michael,  but  nevertheless  she  instinctively 
felt  and  quailed  before  the  conviction  that  he  really 
was  leaving  her  for  ever,  that  he  would  reconstruct  a 
life  for  himself  somewhere  in  which  she  could  not  reach 
him,  in  which  she  would  have  no  part  or  lot.  He  might 
suffer  during  the  process,  but  he  would  do  it.  His 
yea  was  yea,  and  his  nay,  nay.  She  should  see  him  no 
more.  Some  day,  not  for  a  long  time  perhaps,  but  some 
day,  she  should  hear  of  his  marriage. 

Suddenly,  without  a  moment's  warning,  her  own  life 
rose  up  before  her,  distorted,  horrible,  unendurable. 
The  ilexes,  solemn  in  the  sunset,  showed  like  foul  shapes 

16 


PRISONERS  17 

of  disgust  and  nausea.  The  quiet  Campagna  with  its 
distant  faintly  outlined  Sabine  hills  was  rotten  to  the 
core. 

The  duke  passed  across  a  glade  at  a  little  distance, 
and,  looking  up,  smiled  gravely  at  her,  with  a  slight 
courteous  gesture  of  his  brown  hand. 

She  smiled  mechanically  in  response  and  shrank  back 
into  her  room.  Her  husband  had  suddenly  become  a 
thing  to  shudder  at,  repulsive  as  a  reptile,  intolerable. 
Her  life  with  him,  without  Michael,  stretched  before  her 
like  a  loathsome  disease,  a  leprosy,  which  in  the  inter- 
minable years  would  gradually  eat  her  away,  a  death 
by  inches. 

The  first  throes  of  a  frustrated  passion  at  the  stake 
have  probably  seldom  failed  to  engender  a  fierce  re- 
bellion against  the  laws  which  light  the  faggots  round  it. 

The  fire  had  licked  Fay.  She  fled  blindfold  from  it, 
not  knowing  whither,  only  away  from  that  pain,  over 
any  precipice,  into  any  slough. 

"  I  cannot  live  without  him,"  she  sobbed  to  herself. 
"  This  is  not  just  a  common  love  affair  like  other  peo- 
ple's. It  is  everything,  my  whole  life!  It  is  not  as  if 
we  were  bad  people !  We  are  both  upright !  We  always 
have  been !  We  have  both  done  our  best,  but — I  can't 
go  on.  What  is  reputation  worth,  the  world's  opinion 
of  me? — nothing." 

It  was  not  worth  more  to  Fay  at  that  moment  than  it 
has  ever  been  worth  to  any  other  poor  mortal  since 
the  world's  opinion  first  clashed  with  love. 

To  follow  love  shows  itself  time  and  time  again  alike 
to  the  pure  and  to  the  worldly  as  the  only  real  life, 
the  only  path.  But  if  we  disbelieve  in  it,  and  framing 


18  PRISONERS 

our  lives  on  other  lines  become  voluntarily  bedridden 
into  selfishness  and  luxury,  can  we — when  that  in  which 
we  have  not  believed  comes  to  pass — can  we  suddenly 
rise  and  follow  Love  up  his  mountain  passes?  We  try 
to  rise  when  he  calls  us  from  our  sick  beds.  We  even 
go  feverishly  a  little  way  with  him.  But  unless  we  have 
learnt  the  beginnings  of  courage  and  self-surrender 
before  we  set  out,  we  seem  to  turn  giddy,  and  lose  our 
footing.  Certain  precipices  there  are  where  only  the 
pure  and  strong  in  heart  may  pass,  at  the  foot  of  which 
are  the  piled  bones  of  many  passionate  pilgrims. 

Were  Fay's  delicate  little  bones,  so  subtly  covered  in 
soft  white  flesh,  to  be  added  to  that  putrefying  heap? 
But  can  we  blame  anyone,  be  they  who  they  may,  placed 
howsoever  they  may  be,  who  when  first  they  undergo  a 
real  emotion  try  however  feebly  to  rise  to  meet  it? 

Fay  was  not  wholly  wise,  not  wholly  sincere,  but  she 
made  an  attempt  to  meet  it.  It  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  the  attempt  would  be  quite  wise  or  quite  sincere 
either.  Still  it  was  the  best  she  could  do.  She  would 
sacrifice  herself  for  love.  She  would  go  away  with 
Michael.  No  one  would  ever  speak  to  her  again,  but 
she  did  not  care. 

Involuntarily  she  unclasped  a  diamond  Saint-Esprit 
from  her  throat  which  the  duke  had  given  her,  and 
laid  it  on  her  writing-table.  She  should  never  wear  it 
again.  She  no  longer  had  the  right  to  wear  it.  It  was 
a  unique  jewel.  But  what  did  she  care  for  jewels  now! 
They  had  served  to  pass  the  time  in  the  sort  of  waking 
dream  in  which  she  had  lived  till  Michael  came.  But 
she  was  awake  now.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass 
long  and  fixedly.  Yes,  she  was  beautiful.  How  dread- 


PRISONERS  19 

f ul  it  must  be  for  plain  women  when  they  loved !  They 
must  know  that  men  could  not  really  care  for  them. 
They  might,  of  course,  respect  and  esteem  them,  and 
wish  in  a  lukewarm  way  to  marry  them,  but  they  could 
never  really  love  them.  She,  Fay,  carried  with  her  the 
talisman. 

A  horrible  doubt  seized  her,  just  when  she  was  becom- 
ing calm.  Supposing  Michael  would  not !  Oh !  but  he 
would  if  he  cared  as  she  did.  The  sacrifice  was  all  on 
the  woman's  side.  No  one  thought  much  the  worse  of 
men  when  they  did  these  things.  And  Michael  was  so 
good,  so  honourable  that  he  would  certainly  never  desert 
her.  They  would  become  legal  husband  and  wife 
directly  Andrea  divorced  her. 

From  underneath  these  matted  commonplaces,  Fay's 
muffled  conscience  strove  to  reach  her  with  its  weak 
voice. 

"  Stop,  stop !  "  it  said.  "  You  will  injure  him.  You 
will  tie  a  noose  round  his  neck.  You  will  spoil  his  life. 
And  Andrea!  He  has  been  kind  in  a  way.  And  your 
marriage  vows !  And  your  own  people  at  home !  And 
Magdalen,  the  sister  who  loves  you.  Remember  her! 
Stop,  stop!  Let  Michael  go.  You  were  obliged  to 
relinquish  him  once.  Let  him  go  again  now." 

Fay  believed  she  went  through  a  second  conflict. 
Perhaps  there  lurked  at  the  back  of  her  mind  the  image 
of  Michael's  set  face — set  away  from  her;  and  that 
image  helped  her  at  last  to  say  to  herself,  "  Yes.  It 
is  right.  I  will  let  him  go." 

But  did  she  really  mean  it?  For  while  she  said  over 
and  over  again,  "  Yes,  yes ;  we  must  part,"  she  decided 
that  it  was  necessary  to  see  him  just  once  again,  to 


20  PRISONERS 

bid  him  a  last  farewell,  to  strengthen  him  to  live  with- 
out her.  She  could  not  reason  it  out,  but  she  knew  that 
it  was  absolutely  essential  to  the  welfare  of  both  that 
they  should  see  each  other  just  once  more  before  they 
parted — for  ever.  The  parting  no  longer  loomed  so 
awful  in  her  mind  if  there  was  to  be  a  meeting  before  it 
took  place.  She  almost  forgot  it  directly  her  mind 
could  find  a  staying  point  on  the  thought  of  that  one 
last  sacred  interview,  of  all  she  should  say,  of  all  they 
would  both  feel. 

But  how  to  see  him !  He  had  said  he  would  not  come 
back.  He  left  Rome  in  a  few  days.  She  should  see  him 
officially  on  Thursday,  when  he  was  in  attendance  on 
his  chief.  But  what  was  the  use  of  that?  He  would 
hardly  exchange  a  word  with  her.  She  might  decide 
to  see  him  alone;  but  what  if  he  refused  to  see  her? 
Instinctively  Fay  knew  that  he  would  so  refuse. 

"We  must  part."  Just  so.  But  how  to  hold  him? 
How  to  draw  him  to  her  just  once  more?  That  was  the 
crux. 

In  novels  if  a  woman  needs  the  help  of  the  chivalrous 
man  ever  kneeling  in  the  background,  she  sends  him  a 
ring.  Fay  looked  earnestly  at  her  rings.  But  Michael 
might  not  understand  if  she  sent  him  one,  and  if  the 
duke  intercepted  it  he  would  certainly  entirely  miscon- 
strue the  situation. 

Fay  sat  down  at  her  writing-table,  and  got  out  her 
note-paper.  Truth  compels  me  to  state  that  it  was  of 
blue  linen,  that  it  had  a  little  gilt  coronet  on  it,  and 
that  it  was  scented. 

She  thought  a  long  time.  At  least  she  bit  the  little 
silver  owl  at  the  end  of  her  pen  for  a  long  time.  She 


PRISONERS  21 

tore  up  several  sheets.     At  last  she  wrote  in  her  large, 
slanting,  dashing  handwriting: 

"  I  know  that  we  must  part.  You  are  right  and  I 
wish  it  too.  It  is  all  like  a  terrible  dream,  and  what  will 
the  awakening  be?  "  (Fay  did  not  quite  know  what  she 
meant  by  this,  but  it  impressed  her  deeply  as  she  wrote 
it,  and  a  tear  dropped  on  "  the  awakening  "  and  made 
it  look  like  "  reckoning."  She  was  not  of  those,  how- 
ever, who  having  once  written  one  word  ever  think  it  can 
be  mistaken  for  another ;  and  really  reckoning  did  quite 
as  well  as  awakening.)  "  But  I  must  see  you  once  before 
you  go.  I  have  something  of  urgent  importance  to 
say  to  you."  (It  was  not  clear  to  Fay  what  the  matter 
of  importance  was.  But  has  not  everyone  in  love 
laboured  daily  under  a  burden  as  big  as  Christian's,  of 
subjects  which  demand  instant  discussion,  or  the  bearer 
may  fall  into  a  state  of  melancholia?  Fay  was  con- 
vinced as  she  wrote  that  there  was  something  she  ached 
to  say  to  him:  and  also  the  point  was  to  say  something 
that  would  bring  him.)  '*  Don't  fail  me.  You  have  never 
failed  me  yet.  You  left  me  before  when  it  was  right 
we  should  part.  Did  I  try  to  keep  you  then?  Did  I  say 
one  word  to  hold  you  back?  "  (Fay's  heart  swelled 
as  she  wrote  those  words.  She  saw,  bathed  in  a  new 
light,  her  own  courage  and  uprightness  in  the  past.  She 
realised  her  extraordinary  strength  of  character.  She 
had  not  faltered  then.)  "  I  did  not  falter  then.  I  will 
not  do  so  now,  though  this  time  is  harder  than  the  first" 
(It  certainly  was.)  "  You  have  to  come  to  my  little 
party  on  Thursday  with  your  chief.  I  cannot  speak 
to  you  then.  I  am  closely  watched.  When  the  others 


22  PRISONERS 

have  gone  come  back  through  the  gardens.  The  dooi 
by  the  fountain  will  be  unlocked,  and  come  up  the 
balcony  steps  to  my  sitting-room.  The  balcony  window 
will  be  open.  You  know  that  I  should  not  ask  you  to 
do  this  unless  it  was  urgent.  Will  you  fail  me  at  the 
last?  For  we  shall  never  meet  again,  Michael!  " 

Fay  closed  the  note,  directed  it,  pinned  it  into  the 
lace  of  her  inmost  vest — the  wife  of  an  Italian  distrusts 
pockets  and  postal  arrangements — and  then  wept  her 
heart  out,  her  vain,  selfish  little  heart,  which  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  was  not  wholly  vain,  nor  wholly 
selfish.  Perhaps  it  was  not  her  fault  if  she  was  cruel. 
It  takes  many  steadfast  years,  many  prayers,  many 
acts  of  humble  service  before  we  may  hope  to  reach  the 
place  where  we  are  content  to  bear  alone  the  brunt  of 
that  pang,  and  to  guard  the  one  we  love  even  from 
ourselves. 


CHAPTER    III 

There  will  no  man  do  for  your  sake,  I  think, 

What  I  would  have  done  for  the  least  word  said. 

I  had  wrung  life  dry  for  your  lips  to  drink, 
Broken  it  up  for  your  daily  bread. 

— A.  C.  SWINBURNE. 

A  WITTY  bishop  was  once  heard  to  remark  that  one  of 
the  difficulties  of  his  social  life  lay  in  the  fact  that  all 
women  of  forty  were  exactly  alike,  and  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  recall  their  individual  label,  to  which  archdeacon, 
or  canon,  or  form  of  spinster  good  works,  they  be- 
longed. It  would  be  dangerous,  irreverent,  to  pry 
further  into  the  recesses  of  the  episcopal,  or  even  of 
the  suffragan,  mind.  There  are  snowy  peaks  where 
we  lay  helpers  should  fear  to  tread.  But  it  may  be 
stated,  without  laying  ourselves  open  to  a  suspicion  of 
wishing  to  undermine  the  Church,  that  when  the  woman 
of  forty  in  her  turn  acidly  announces,  as  she  not  in- 
frequently does,  that  all  young  men  seem  to  her  exactly 
alike,  she  is  in  a  parlous  condition. 

Yet  many  women  had  said  that  Michael  was  exactly 
like  every  other  young  man.  And  to  all  except  the 
very  few  who  knew  him  well  he  certainly  did  appear  to 
be — not  an  individual  at  all — but  only  an  indistin- 
guished  unit  of  a  vast  army. 

His  obvious  good  looks  were  like  the  good  looks  of 
others.  He  looked  well  bred,  but  to  look  that  is  as 
common  in  a  certain  class  as  it  is  rare  in  another.  He 

23 


24  PRISONERS 

had  the  spare,  wiry  figure,  tall  and  lightly  built,  square 
in  the  shoulders,  and  thin  in  the  flank ;  he  had  the  clear 
weather-beaten  complexion,  the  clean,  nervous,  capable 
hand,  and  the  self-effacing  manner,  which  we  associate 
with  myriads  of  well-born,  machine-trained,  perfectly 
groomed,  expensively  educated,  uneducated  English- 
men. Our  public  schools  turn  them  out  by  the  thou- 
sand. The  "  lost  legion  "  is  made  up  of  them.  The 
unburied  bones  of  the  pioneers  of  new  colonies  are 
mostly  theirs.  They  die  of  thirst  in  "  the  never  never 
country,"  under  a  tree,  leaving  their  initials  cut  in  its 
trunk;  they  fall  by  hundreds  in  our  wars.  They  are 
born  leaders  where  acumen  and  craft  are  not  needed. 
Large  game  was  made  for  them,  and  they  for  it.  They 
are  the  vermin  destroyers  of  the  universe.  They  throw 
life  from  them  with  both  hands,  they  play  the  game  of 
life  with  a  levity  which  they  never  showed  in  the  busi- 
ness of  cricket  and  football. 

They  are  essentially  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  those 
dull  persons,  the  thinkers,  the  politicians,  the  educa- 
tionalists, are  made.  No  profession  knows  them  except 
the  army.  They  have  no  opinions  worth  hearing.  Only 
the  women  who  are  to  marry  them  listen  to  them.  They 
are  sometimes  squeezed  into  Parliament  and  are  borne 
with  there  like  children.  About  one  in  a  hundred  of 
them  can  earn  his  own  living,  and  then  it  is  as  a  land 
agent. 

They  make  adorable  country  squires,  and  picturesque, 
simple-minded,  painstaking  men  of  rank.  They  know 
by  a  sort  of  hereditary  instinct  how  to  deal  with  a 
labouring  man,  and  a  horse,  and  how  to  break  in  a  dog, 
They  give  themselves  no  airs.  We  have  millions  of 


PRISONERS  25 

men  like  this,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  nation 
finds  much  use  for  them,  except  at  coronations,  where 
they  look  beautiful;  or  on  county  councils,  where  they 
can  hold  an  opinion  without  the  preliminary  fatigue 
of  forming  it;  and  on  the  bloodstained  fringes  of  our 
empire,  where  they  serenely  meet  their  dreadful  deaths. 

In  the  ranks  of  that  vast  army  I  descry  Michael, 
and  I  wonder  what  it  is  in  him  that  makes  me  able  to 
descry  him  at  all.  He  is  like  thousands  of  other  men. 
In  what  is  he  unlike? 

I  think  it  must  be  something  in  his  expression.  Of 
many  ugly  men  it  has  been  said  with  truth  that  one 
never  observes  their  ugliness.  Something  in  the  char- 
acter redeems  it.  With  Michael's  undeniable  good  looks 
it  was  the  same.  One  did  not  notice  them.  They  were 
not  admired,  except,  possibly,  for  the  first  moment,  or 
across  a  room.  His  rather  insignificant  grey  eyes  were 
the  only  thing  one  remembered  him  by,  the  only  part  of 
him  which  seemed  to  represent  him. 

It  was  as  if  out  of  the  narrow  window  of  a  fortress 
our  friend  for  a  moment  looked  out ;  that  "  friend  of 
our  infinite  dreams  "  who  in  dreams,  but,  alas !  never 
by  day,  comes  softly  to  us  across  the  white  fields  of 
youth ;  who,  later  on,  in  dreams  but  never  by  day,  over- 
takes us  with  unbearable  happiness  in  his  hand  in  which 
to  steep  our  exhaustion  on  the  hillside;  who  when  our 
hair  is  grey  comes  to  us  still  in  dreams  but  never  by  day, 
down  the  darkening  valley,  to  tell  us  that  our  worn  out 
romantic  hopes  are  but  the  alphabet  of  his  language. 

Such  a  look  there  was  in  Michael's  eyes,  and  what 
it  meant  who  shall  say?  Once  and  again  at  long  inter- 
vals we  pass  in  the  thoroughfare  of  life  young  faces 


26  PRISONERS 

which  have  the  same  expression,  as  if  they  saw  beyond, 
as  if  they  looked  past  their  own  youth  across  to  an  im- 
mortal youth,  from  their  own  life  to  an  unquenchable, 
upwelling  spring  of  life.  When  Michael  spoke,  which 
was  little,  his  words  verged  on  the  commonplace.  He 
explained  the  obvious  with  modest  directness.  He  had 
thought  out  and  made  his  own  a  small  selection  of  plati- 
tudes. It  is  at  first  a  shock  to  some  of  us  when  we  dis- 
cover that  a  beautiful  spiritual  nature  is  linked  with  a 
tranquil  commonplace  mind  and  narrow  abilities. 

When  Michael's  eyes  rested  on  anything  his  still 
glance  seemed  to  pass  through  it,  into  its  essence.  An 
inscrutable  Fate  had  willed  that  his  eyes  should  not 
rest  on  any  woman  save  Fay. 

Was  her  little  hand  to  rend  his  illusions  from  him; 
or  did  he  perhaps  see  her  as  she  was,  as  her  husband,  her 
shrewd  old  grandmother,  her  sister  even,  had  never  seen 
her?  Fay  had  revealed  to  Michael  that  of  which  many 
men  who  write  glibly  of  passion  die  in  ignorance,  the 
wonder  and  awe  of  love,  clothed  in  a  woman's  form, 
walking  the  earth.  And  in  a  reverent  and  grateful 
loyalty  Michael  would  have  laid  down  his  life  for  her, 
as  gladly  as  Dante  would  have  done  for  "  his  lady." 
But  Michael  would  have  laid  down  his  in  silence,  as  one 
casts  off  a  glove.  He  had  never  read  the  "  New  Life." 
It  is  improbable  that  it  would  have  made  any  impression 
on  him  if  he  had  read  it.  He  never  associated  words 
or  books  or  poetry  with  feelings.  What  he  felt  he  held 
sacred.  He  was  unconsciously  by  nature  that  which 
others  of  the  artistic  temperament  consciously  are  in  a 
lesser  degree,  and  are  doomed  to  try  to  express. 
Michael  never  wanted  to  express  anything,  had  no  im- 


PRISONERS  27 

pulse  of  self-revelation,  no  interest  in  his  own  mental 
experiences. 

While  Fay  was  turning  over  her  little  bric-a-brac 
assortment  of  feelings,  her  toy  renunciations,  her  imi- 
tation convictions,  Michael  was  slowly  making  the 
great  renunciation  without  even  taking  himself  into 
his  confidence.  To  go  away.  To  see  her  no  more. 
This  was  death  by  inches.  As  he  sat  hour  after  hour 
in  his  little  room  behind  the  Embassy  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if,  by  some  frightful  exertion  of  his  will,  he  were 
wading  with  incredible  slowness  out  to  sea,  over  endless 
flats  in  inch-deep  water,  which  after  an  interminable 
journey  would  be  deep  enough  to  drown  him  at  last. 

The  nausea  and  horror  of  this  slow  death  were  upon 
him.  Nevertheless,  he  meant  to  move  towards  it.  And 
where  Michael's  eye  was  fixed  there  his  foot  followed. 
He  was  not  of  those  who  rend  themselves  by  violent 
conflict.  If  he  had  ever  been  asked  to  give  his  reason 
for  any  action  of  his  life,  from  the  greatest  to  the 
smallest,  he  would  have  looked  at  the  questioner  in  mild 
surprise,  and  would  have  said:  "  It  was  the  only  thing 
to  do." 

To  him  vacillation  and  doubt  were  unknown.  A  cer- 
tain wisdom  could  never  be  his,  for  he  saw  no  alter- 
natives. He  never  balanced  two  courses  of  action 
against  each  other. 

"  There  were  no  two  ways  about  it,"  he  said  to  his 
godfather,  the  Bishop  of  Lostford,  respecting  a  de- 
cision where  there  were  several  alternatives,  which  he 
had  endeavoured  to  set  before  Michael  with  imparti- 
ality. But  Michael  saw  only  one  course,  and  took  it. 

And  now  again  he  only  saw  one  course,  and  he  meant 


28  PRISONERS 

v 

to  take  it.  He  sickened  under  it,  but  his  mind  was 
made  up.  Fay's  letter  which  duly  reached  him  only 
made  him  suffer.  It  did  not  alter  his  determination  to 
go.  Certainly,  he  would  see  her  again,  if  she  desired 
it  so  intensely,  and  had  something  vitally  important  to 
tell  him,  though  he  disliked  the  suggestion  of  a  clandes- 
tine meeting.  Still  it  was  Fay's  suggestion,  and  Fay 
could  do  no  wrong.  But  he  knew  that  nothing  she 
could  do  or  say,  nothing  new  that  she  could  spring  upon 
him  would  have  power  to  shake  his  decision  to  leave 
Rome  on  Friday.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  do. 


CHAPTER    IV 

L'on  fait  plus  souvent  des  trahisons  par  faiblesse  que 
par  un  dessein  forme  de  trahir. — LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

FAY'S  evening-party  was  a  success.  Her  parties  gen- 
erally were.  It  was  a  small  gathering,  for  as  it  was 
May  but  few  of  the  residents  had  come  down  to  the 
villas.  Some  of  the  guests  had  motored  out  from  Rome. 
My  impression  is  that  Fay  enjoyed  the  evening.  She 
certainly  enjoyed  the  brilliancy  which  excitement  had 
momentarily  added  to  her  beauty. 

All  the  time  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "  If  people 
only  knew.  What  a  contrast  between  what  these  peo- 
ple think  and  what  I  really  am.  Perhaps  this  is  the 
last  time  I  shall  have  a  party  here.  Perhaps  I  shall 
not  be  here  to-morrow.  Perhaps  Michael  will  insist  on 
taking  me  away  with  him,  from  this  death  in  life,  this 
hell  on  earth." 

What  large  imposing  words !  How  well  they  sounded ! 
Yes,  in  a  way  Fay  was  enjoying  herself. 

Often  during  the  evening  she  saw  the  grave,  kindly 
eyes  of  the  duke  upon  her.  Once  he  came  up  to  her, 
and  paid  her  a  little  exquisite  compliment.  Her  dis- 
gust and  hatred  of  him  were  immediately  forgotten. 
She  smiled  back  at  him.  She  did  not  love  him  of  course. 
A  man  like  that  did  not  know  what  love  was.  But  Fay 
had  never  yet  felt  harshly  towards  any  man  who  ad- 
mired her.  The  husband  who  did  not  understand  her 
watched  her  with  something  of  the  indulgent,  protect- 

29 


30  PRISONERS 

ing  expression  which  we  see  on  the  face  of  the  owner 
of  an  enchanting  puppy,  which  is  ready  to  gallop  on 
india  rubber  legs  after  any  pair  of  boots  which  appears 
on  its  low  horizon. 

The  guests  had  ebbed  away  by  degrees.  Lord  John 
Alington,  a  tall,  bald,  boring  Englishman,  and  one  or 
two  others,  remained  behind,  arranging  some  expedition 
with  the  duke. 

Michael's  chief  had  long  since  gone.  Michael  did 
not  depart  with  him,  but  took  his  leave  a  few  moments 
later.  Michael's  departure  from  Rome  the  following 
day  on  urgent  affairs  was  generally  known.  The  duke 
had  watched  him  bid  Fay  a  mechanical  farewell,  and 
had  then  expressed  an  urbane  regret  at  his  departure. 
The  thin,  pinched  face  of  the  young  man  appealed  to 
the  elder  one.  The  duke  had  liked  him  from  the  first. 

"  It  is  time  he  went,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  watched 
Michael  leave  the  room.  As  Michael  left  it  Fay's  ex- 
citement dropped  from  her,  and  she  became  conscious 
of  an  enormous  fatigue.  A  few  minutes  later  she 
dragged  herself  up  the  great  pictured  staircase  to  her 
little  boudoir  overlooking  the  garden,  and  sank  down 
exhausted  on  a  couch.  Her  pretty  Italian  maid  was 
waiting  for  her  in  the  adjoining  bedroom,  and  came  to 
her,  and  began  to  unfasten  her  jewels. 

Fay  dismissed  her  for  the  night,  saying  she  was  not 
going  to  bed  yet.  She  often  stayed  up  late  reading. 
She  was  of  those  who  say  that  they  have  no  time  for 
reading  in  the  day,  and  who  like  to  look  up  (or  rather, 
to  say  afterwards  they  looked  up)  to  find  the  solemn 
moon  peering  in  at  them. 


PRISONERS  31 

To-night  there  was  no  solemn  or  otherwise  disposed 
moon. 

Fay's  heart  suddenly  began  to  beat  so  wildly  that  it 
seemed  as  if  she  would  suffocate.  What  violent  emo- 
tion was  this  which  was  flooding  her,  sweeping  away 
all  landmarks,  covering,  as  by  one  great  inrolling  tidal 
wave,  all  the  familiar  country  of  her  heart?  Whither 
was  she  being  swept  in  the  midst  of  this  overwhelming 
roaring  torrent?  Out  to  sea?  To  some  swift  destruc- 
tion ?  Where  ?  Where  ? 

She  clutched  the  arm  of  the  sofa  and  trembled.  She 
had  known  so  many  small  emotions.  What  was  this? 
And  like  a  second  wave  on  the  top  of  the  first  a  sea  of 
recklessness  broke  over  and  engulfed  her.  What  next? 
She  did  not  know.  She  did  not  care.  Michael,  his  face 
and  hand.  These  were  the  only  realities.  In  another 
moment  she  should  see  him,  feel  him,  hold  him,  never, 
never  let  him  go  again. 

In  the  intense  stillness  a  whisper  came  up  through 
the  orange  blossom  below  her  balcony: 

"  Fay." 

She  was  on  the  balcony  in  a  moment.  The  scent  of 
the  orange  blossom  had  become  alive  and  confused 
everything. 

"  Come  up,"  she  said  almost  inaudibly. 

"  I  cannot." 

"  You  must.     I  must  speak  to  you." 

"  Come  down  here  then.    I  am  not  coming  up." 

She  ran  down,  and  felt  rather  than  saw  Michael's 
presence  at  the  foot  of  the  little  stair. 

He  was  breathing  hard.  He  did  not  move  towards 
her. 


32  PRISONERS 

"  You  sent  for  me,  so  I  came,"  he  said.  "  Tell  me 
quickly  what  I  can  do  for  you,  how  I  can  serve  you. 
I  cannot  remain  here  more  than  a  moment.  I  endanger 
your  safety  as  it  is." 

It  was  all  so  different  from  what  she  had  expected, 
from  what  she  had  pictured  to  herself.  He  was  so 
determined  and  stern ;  and  it  had  never  struck  her  as 
possible  that  he  would  not  come  up  to  her  room,  that 
the  interview  would  be  so  short. 

"  I  can't  speak  here,"  she  said,  angry  tears  smarting 
in  her  eyes. 

"  You  can  and  must.  Tell  me  quickly,  dearest,  why 
you  sent  for  me.  You  said  it  was  all-important.  I  am 
here,  I  will  do  your  bidding,  if  you  will  only  say  what 
it  is." 

"  Take  me  with  you,"  she  gasped  inaudibly. 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  that.  She  was  merely 
the  mouthpiece  of  something  vast,  of  some  blind  de- 
structive force  that  was  rending  her.  She  swayed 
against  the  railings,  clinging  to  them  with  both 
hands. 

Even  as  she  spoke  her  voiceless  whisper  was  drowned 
in  a  sound  but  very  little  louder.  There  was  a  distant 
stir,  a  movement  as  of  waking  bees  in  the  house. 

He  had  not  heard  her.     He  was  listening  intently. 

"  Go  back  instantly  and  shut  the  window,"  he  said, 
and  in  a  moment  she  felt  he  was  gone. 

She  crept  feebly  up  the  stairs  to  her  room  and  sank 
down  again  on  the  couch,  broken,  half  dead. 

"  I  shall  see  him  no  more.  I  shall  see  him  no  more," 
she  said  to  herself,  twisting  her  hands.  What  a  trav- 
esty, what  a  mockery  that  one  hurried  moment  had 


33 

been !  What  a  parting  that  was  no  parting !  He  had 
no  heart.  He  did  not  really  love  her. 

Through  her  stupor  she  felt  rather  than  heard  a 
movement  in  the  house.  She  stole  out  of  her  room  to 
the  head  of  the  grand  staircase.  Nearly  all  the  lights 
had  been  put  out.  Close  to  a  lamp  in  the  saloon  below, 
the  duke  and  Lord  John  were  standing,  looking  at  a 
map.  "  The  Grotta  Ferrata  road  is  the  best,"  the  duke 
was  saying.  And  as  he  spoke  a  servant  came  in  quickly, 
and  whispered  to  the  duke,  who  left  the  saloon  with  him. 

Fay  fled  back  to  her  own  room.  Something  was  hap- 
pening. But  what  ?  Could  it  have  any  connection  with 
herself  and  Michael?  No,  that  seemed  impossible. 
And  Michael  must  by  now  have  left  the  gardens,  by  the 
unlocked  door  by  which  he  had  come  in. 

Fay  drew  the  reading  lamp  nearer  to  her,  and  opened 
the  book  of  devotions  which  Magdalen,  her  far  off  sister 
in  England,  had  sent  her.  Her  eyes  wandered  over  the 
page,  her  mind  taking  no  heed. 

"  For  it  is  the  most  pain  that  the  soul  may  have,  to 
turn  from  God  any  time  by  sin." 

There  certainly  was  a  sort  of  subdued  stir  in  the 
house.  A  nameless  fear  was  invading  Fay's  heart. 
The  book  shook  in  her  hand.  What  could  be  happen- 
ing? And  if  it  was,  as  it  must  be,  something  quite 
apart  from  her  and  Michael,  what  did  it  matter,  why 
be  afraid? 

"  For  sin  is  vile,  and  so  greatly  to  be  hated  that 
it  may  be  likened  to  no  pain  which  is  not  sin.  And  to 
me  was  showed  no  harder  hell  than  sin." 

A  low  tap  came  at  the  window.  Fay  started  violently, 
and  the  book  dropped  on  the  floor. 


34  PRISONERS 

The  tap  was  repeated.  She  went  to  the  window,  and 
saw  Michael's  face  through  the  glass. 

She  opened  the  glass  door,  and  he  came  in.  His 
clothes  were  smeared  and  torn,  and  there  was  blood 
upon  his  hand. 

"  Something  has  happened,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  but  the  garden  is  surrounded,  and  there  is 
someone  watching  at  the  door  I  came  in  at.  I  have 
tried  all  the  other  ways.  I  have  tried  to  climb  the  wall, 
but  there  was  glass  at  the  top.  I  can't  get  out.  And 
they  are  searching  the  gardens  with  lanterns." 

Even  as  he  spoke  they  saw  lights  moving  among 
the  ilexes. 

"  They  can't  know,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  It  does  not  seem  possible.  They  are  probably  look- 
ing for  someone  else,  but  I  can't  be  found  here  at 
this  hour  without  raising  suspicion.  Is  there  any  way 
out  through  the  house  from  here?  " 

"  Only  down  the  grand  staircase." 

"  I  must  risk  it.     Show  me  the  way." 

They  went  together  down  the  almost  dark  corridor. 
Fay's  heart  sickened  at  the  thought  that  a  belated  serv- 
ant might  see  them.  But  all  was  quiet.  At  the  head  of 
the  staircase  they  both  peered  over  the  balustrade.  At 
its  foot  in  a  narrow  circle  of  light  stood  the  duke  and 
Lord  John,  and  a  man  with  a  tri-coloured  sash.  Even 
as  they  looked,  the  three  turned  and  began  slowly  to 
mount  the  staircase. 

Fay  and  Michael  were  back  in  her  boudoir  in  a 
moment. 

"  There  is  a  way  out  here,"  he  said,  indicating  the 
door  into  her  bedroom. 


PRISONERS  35 

"  It  leads  into  my  bedroom,  and  then  through  to 
Andrea's  rooms.  There  is  no  passage,  and  he  has  a  dog 
in  his  room.  It  would  bark." 

"  I  must  go  back  to  the  garden  again,"  he  said,  and 
instantly  moved  to  the  window.  Both  saw  two  carabi- 
nieri  standing  with  a  lantern  at  the  foot  of  the  balcony 
steps. 

"  If  you  go  down  now,"  said  Fay  hoarsely,  "  my 
reputation  goes  with  you." 

He  looked  at  her. 

It  was  as  if  his  whole  life  were  focussed  on  one  burn- 
ing point ;  how  to  save  her  from  suspicion.  If  he  could 
have  shrivelled  into  ashes  at  her  feet  he  would  have 
done  it.  She  saw  her  frightful  predicament,  and  almost 
hated  him. 

The  animal  panic  of  being  trapped  caught  them  both 
simultaneously.  He  overcame  it  instantly,  while  she 
shook  helplessly  as  in  a  palsy. 

He  went  swiftly  back  to  the  door  leading  to  the  stair- 
case, and  glanced  through  it. 

"  They  are  coming  along  the  corridor,"  he  said. 
"  They  will  certainly  come  in  here." 

"  Stand  behind  the  screen,"  she  gasped.  "  I  will  say 
no  one  has  been  here,  and  they  will  pass  through  into 
the  other  room.  As  soon  as  they  have  left  the  room  go 
quickly  out  by  the  staircase." 

He  looked  round  him  once,  and  then  walked  behind 
a  tall  screen  of  Italian  leather  which  stood  at  the  head 
of  a  divan. 

Fay  took  up  her  book  from  the  floor,  but  her  numb 
fingers  refused  to  hold  it.  She  put  it  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  near  her,  under  the  lamp,  hid  her  shaking 


30  PRISONERS 

hands  in  the  folds  of  her  long  white  chiffon  gown,  and 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  page. 

The  words  of  the  dead  saint  swam  before  her  eyes : 

"  Yea,  He  loveth  us  now  as  well  while  we  are  here,  as 
He  shall  do  while  we  are  there  afore  His  blessed  face. 
But  for  failing  of  love  on  our  part,  therefore  is  all  our 
travail." 

There  were  subdued  footsteps  outside,  a  tap,  the 
duke's  voice. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  " 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  but  she  heard  no  words. 

She  made  a  superhuman  effort. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said  again,  and  this  time  to  her 
relief  she  heard  the  words  distinctly. 

The  duke  entered  and  held  the  door  half  closed. 

"  I  feared  to  disturb  you,  my  child,"  he  said,  "  but 
it  is  unavoidable  that  I  disturb  you.  It  is  a  relief  to 
find  that  you  are  not  yet  in  bed  and  asleep.  A  very 
grave,  a  very  sad  event  has  happened  which  necessitates 
the  presence  of  the  police  commissioner.  Calm  your- 
self, my  Francesca,  and  my  good  friend  the  delegate 
will  explain." 

The  official  in  the  sash  came  in.  Lord  John  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Duchess,"  said  the  official,  "  I  grieve  to  say  that 
one  of  your  guests  of  this  evening,  the  Marchese  di 
Maltagliala,  has  been  assassinated  in  the  garden,  or 
possibly  in  the  road,  and  his  dead  body  was  dragged 
into  the  garden  afterwards.  He  was  found  just  inside 
the  east  garden  door,  which  by  some  mischance  had 
been  left  unlocked." 

A  deathlike   silence   followed   the   delegate's  words. 


"A  DEATHLIKE  SILENCE  FOLLOWED  THE  DELEGATO's  WORDS  " 


PRISONERS  37 

Fay  turned  her  bloodless  face  towards  him,  and  her 
eyes  never  left  him.  She  felt  Michael  listening  behind 
the  screen. 

"  There  was  hardly  an  instant,"  continued  the  official, 
with  a  touch  of  professional  pride,  "  before  the  alarm 
was  given.  By  a  fortunate  chance  I  myself  happened 
to  be  near.  The  garden  was  instantly  surrounded.  It 
is  being  searched  now.  It  seems  hardly  possible  that 
the  assassin  can  have  escaped.  I  entreat  your  pardon 
for  intruding  this  painful  subject  on  the  sensitive  mind 
of  a  lady,  and  breaking  in  on  your  privacy." 

"  I  should  think  he  has  escaped  by  now,"  said  Fay 
hoarsely. 

"  It  is  possible,  but  improbable,"  said  the  official. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  duke.  "  This  is,  I  understand 
from  you,  the  only  way  into  the  house  from  the 
garden  ?  " 

"The  only  way  that  might  possibly  still  be  open," 
said  the  duke.  "  The  doors  on  the  ground  floor  are 
both  locked,  as  we  have  seen." 

"  We  greatly  feared,"  continued  the  duke,  turning 
to  his  wife,  "  that  the  murderer  if  he  were  still  in  the 
garden,  finding  it  was  being  searched,  might  terrify 
you  by  rushing  in  here." 

"  No  one  has  been  in  here,"  said  Fay  automatically. 

"  Have  you  been  in  this  room  ever  since  you  left 
the  saloon  ?  "  said  her  husband. 

"  Yes.    I  have  been  reading  here  ever  since." 

"  Then  it  is  impossible  that  anyone  should  have 
escaped  into  the  house  through  this  room,"  said  the 
duke.  "  The  duchess  must  have  seen  him.  It  is  no 
longer  necessary  to  search  the  house." 


38  PRISONERS 

The  delegate  hesitated.  He  opened  the  glass  door 
and  spoke  to  the  men  with  the  lantern. 

"  They  are  convinced  that  it  is  not  possible  he  is 
concealed  in  the  garden,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps  if  the 
duchess  were  deeply  engaged  in  study  he  might  have 
serpentinely  glided  through  into  the  next  room  without 
her  perceiving  him.  It  is,  I  understand,  the  duchess's 
private  apartment.  It  might  be  as  well — where  does 
the  duchess's  apartment  lead  into?  " 

"  Into  my  rooms,"  said  the  duke,  "  and  my  dog  is 
there.  He  would  have  given  the  alarm  long  ago  if  any 
stranger  had  passed  through  my  room.  If  he  is  silent 
no  one  has  been  near  him." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Fay  learned  what  suspense  means. 

The  delegate  twirled  his  moustaches. 

He  was  evidently  reluctant  to  give  up  the  remotest 
chance,  and  yet  reluctant  to  inconvenience  the  duke 
further. 

"  It  is  just  possible,"  he  said,  "  that  the  assassin  may 
have  taken  refuge  in  here  before  the  duchess  came  back 
to  her  apartment.  My  duties  are  grave,  duchess.  Have 
I  your  permission?  " 

Fay  bowed. 

The  duke,  still  urbane,  but  evidently  finding  the  situ- 
ation unduly  prolonged,  led  the  way  into  Fay's  bed- 
room. 

This  story  would  never  have  been  written  if  Lord 
John  had  not  remained  standing  in  the  doorway. 

Did  Michael  know  he  was  there?  He  had  not  so  far 
spoken,  or  given  any  sign  of  his  presence. 

"  Won't  you  go  into  my  room,  Lord  John,  and  help 


PRISONERS  39 

in  the  capture,"  she  said  distinctly ;  and  as  she  spoke  she 
was  aware  that  she  was  only  just  in  time. 

But  Lord  John  would  not  go  in,  thanks.  Lord  John 
preferred  to  advance  heavily  in  her  direction,  and  to 
sit  down  by  her  on  the  couch,  telling  her  not  to  look 
so  terrified,  that  he  would  take  care  of  her. 

She  stared  wildly  at  him,  livid  and  helpless. 

A  door  was  softly  opened,  and  was  instantly  followed 
by  the  furious  barking  of  a  dog. 

"  Go  and  help  them,"  said  Fay  to  Lord  John. 

But  Lord  John  did  not  move.  Like  all  bores  he 
was  conscious  of  his  own  attractive  personality.  He 
only  settled  his  eyeglass  more  firmly  in  his  pale 
eye. 

"  You  never  spoke  to  me  all  evening,"  he  said,  with 
jocular  emphasis.  "  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  such 
severity?  " 

In  another  moment  the  duke  and  the  official  returned, 
followed  by  Sancho,  a  large  Bridlington  terrier,  still 
bristling  and  snarling  at  the  official. 

Fay  called  the  dog  to  her,  and  held  it  forcibly,  pre- 
tending to  caress  it. 

"  No  one  has  gone  by  that  way,"  said  the  delegato 
to  the  duke.  "  The  dog  proves  that." 

*'  Sancho  proves  it,"  said  the  duke  gravely. 

As  he  spoke  he  paused  as  if  suddenly  arrested.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  a  small  Florentine  mirror  which  hung 
over  Fay's  writing-table  in  the  angle  of  the  wall.  The 
duke's  face  changed,  as  a  man's  face  might  change,  who, 
conscious  of  no  enemy,  feels  himself  stabbed  from 
behind  in  the  dark.  Then  he  came  forward,  and  said 
with  a  firm  voice: 


40  PRISONERS 

"  We  will  now  go  once  more  Into  the  gardens.  Loir? 
John,  you  will  accompany  us." 

Lord  John  got  heavily  to  his  feet. 
"  Take   Sancho  with  you,"   said  Fay,  holding   the 
dog  with  difficulty,  who  was  obviously  excited  and  sus- 
picious, its  mobile  nostrils  working,  its  eyes  glued  to 
the  screen. 

The  duke  opened  the  glass  door,  and  Sancho,  his  at- 
tention turned,  rushed  out  into  the  night,  barking 
furiously. 

"  You  need  have  no  further  fear,"  said  the  duke  to 
Fay,  looking  into  her  eyes.  "  The  assassin  has  cer- 
taily  escaped." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Fay. 

"  Unless  he  is  hiding  behind  the  screen  all  the  time,' 
said  Lord  John,  with  his  customary  facetiousness.  "  It 
is  about  the  only  place  in  the  room  he  could  hide  in,  ex- 
cept of  course  the  wastepaper  basket." 

The  delegate,  who  was  not  apparently  a  man  who 
quickly  seized  the  humorous  side  of  a  remark,  at  once 
stepped  back  from  the  window,  and  glanced  at  the  waste- 
paper  basket. 

"  I  may  as  well  look  behind  the  screen,"  he  said,  and 
went  towards  it. 

But  before  he  could  reach  it  the  screen  moved,  and 
Michael  came  out  from  behind  it. 

The  four  people  in  the  room  gazed  at  him  spell- 
bound, speechless;  Lord  John  reeled  against  the  wall. 
The  duke  alone  retained  his  self-possession. 

Michael  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
for  a  moment  his  eyes  met  Fay's.  Who  shall  say  what 
he  read  in  their  terror-stricken  depths? 


PRISONERS  41 

Then  he  turned  to  the  duke  and  said : 

"  I  ask  pardon  of  you,  duke,  and  of  the  duchess, 
my  cousin,  for  the  inconvenience  I  have  caused  you.  I 
confess  to  the  murder  of  the  Marchese  di  Maltagliala, 
and  sought  refuge  in  the  garden.  When  the  garden 
was  surrounded  I  sought  refuge  here.  I  did  not  tell 
the  duchess  what  I  had  done,  but  I  implored  her  to  let 
me  take  shelter  here,  and  to  promise  not  to  give  me  up. 
She  ought  at  once  to  have  given  me  up.  She  yielded 
to  the  dictates  of  humanity  and  suffered  me  to  hide  in 
this  room.  Duchess,  I  thank  you  for  your  noble,  your 
self-sacrificing  but  unavailing  desire  to  shield  a  guilty 
man." 

Michael  went  up  to  her,  took  her  cold  hand  and  kissed 
it.  Then  he  turned  again  to  the  duke. 

"  I  offer  you  my  apologies  for  this  intrusion,"  he 
said,  and  the  two  men  bowed  to  each  other. 

"  And  now,  signer,"  he  said  in  Italian  to  the  amazed 
official,  "  I  am  at  your  service." 


CHAPTER    V 

Qui  sait  tout  souffrir  peut  tout  oser. — VAUVENARGUES. 

MICHAEL  was  imprisoned  for  the  night  in  a  cell  attached 
to  the  Court  of  Mandamento,  and  the  next  day  was 
sent  to  Rome  to  await  his  trial  at  the  assise. 

Early  on  the  second  day  after  he  reached  Rome  the 
duke  came  to  him.  The  two  men  looked  fixedly  at  each 
other.  They  exchanged  no  form  of  greeting. 

The  duke  made  a  little  sign  with  his  hand,  and  the 
warder  withdrew  outside  the  cell  door,  which  he  left 
ajar. 

Then  the  duke  sat  down  by  Michael. 

'*  I  should  have  come  yesterday,"  he  said  in  English, 
"  but  it  took  time  to  gain  permission,  and  also  " — he 
nodded  towards  the  door — "  to  arrange." 

"  For  God's  sake  give  me  details,"  said  Michael. 

The  duke  gave  them  in  a  low  voice.  He  described  in 
a  careful  sequence  the  exact  position  of  the  dead  body, 
the  wound,  caused  by  stabbing  in  the  back,  the  strong 
inference  that  the  murdered  man  had  been  attacked  in 
the  road,  and  then  dragged  just  inside  the  Colle  Alto 
garden  door. 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  he  should  have  gone 
outside  the  garden,"  said  Michael. 

"  Neither  do  I.  But  the  garden  door  was  unlocked. 
It  had  been  locked  as  usual,  my  gardener  swears,  and 
the  key  left  in  the  lock  on  the  inside.  Who  then  opened 

42 


PRISONERS  43 

it,  if  for  some  reason  the  marchese  did  not  open  it 
himself?  " 

Michael  did  not  answer. 

"  I  saw  the  body  before  it  was  moved,"  continued 
the  duke.  "  It  was  still  warm.  I  incline  to  think  the 
marchese  was  murdered  actually  inside  the  garden,  and 
that  he  fell  on  his  face  where  he  stood,  and  was  dragged 
behind  the  hydrangeas.  But  the  delegate  thought  dif- 
ferently. You  will  remember,  Carstairs,  that  the  dead 
man  had  been  dragged  by  the  feet." 

"  Did  I  put  him  on  the  right  side  or  the  left  of  the 
door  as  you  go  in  ?  " 

"  On  the  left." 

"On  his  face?" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  You  had  no  quarrel  with  the  marchese,  I  presume  ?  " 
said  the  duke  significantly. 

*'  On  the  contrary,"  said  Michael ;  "  it  is  not  known, 
but  I  had." 

"  Just  so.    Just  so.    About  a  woman  ?  " 

Michael  winced. 

"  About  a  horse,"  he  said. 

"'  No,"  said  the  duke,  with  decision.  "  Think  again. 
Your  memory  does  not  serve  you.  It  was  about  a 
woman.  Was  it  not  a  dancing-girl?  " 

"  I  am  not  like  that,"  said  Michael,  colouring. 

"  It  is  of  no  account  what  you  are  like,  or  what  you 
are  not  like.  What  matters  is  that  which  is  quickly 
believed.  A  quarrel  about  a  woman  is  always  believed, 
especially  by  women  who  think  all  turns  on  them.  Were 
you  not  in  Paris  at  Easter?  " 


44 


PRISONERS 


"  I  was." 

"Was  not  the  marchese  in  Paris  at  Easter?  " 

"  He  was.  I  saw  him  once  at  the  Opera  with  the  old 
Duke  of  Castelfranco." 

"  Just  so.  A  quarrel  about  a  dancing-girl  at  Paris 
at  Easter.  That  was  how  it  was." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Michael,  regaining  his  com- 
posure with  an  effort.  "  I  owed  him  a  grudge.  You 
will  be  careful  to  mention  this  to  no  one?  " 

"  I  will  mention  it  only  to  one  or  two  women  on  whom 
I  can  rely,"  said  the  duke ;  "  and  to  them  only  in  the 
strictest  confidence." 

Michael  nodded. 

Silence  fell  between  them,  and  he  wondered  why  the 
duke  did  not  go.  The  warder  shifted  his  feet  in  the 
passage. 

Presently  the  duke  began  to  speak  in  a  low,  even 
voice. 

"  I  owe  you  an  apology,"  he  said.  "  I  saw  you  stand- 
ing behind  the  screen,  reflected  in  a  little  mirror,  and 
for  one  moment  I  thought  you  had  done  me  a  great 
injury.  It  was  only  for  a  moment.  I  regained  myself 
quickly.  I  would  have  saved  you  if  I  could.  But  I 
owe  you  an  apology  for  a  suspicion  unworthy  of  either 
of  us." 

"  It  was  natural,"  said  Michael.  He  was  greatly 
drawn  to  this  man. 

"  I  may  in  some  matters  be  deceived,"  continued  the 
duke,  "  for  in  my  time  I  have  deceived  others,  and  have 
not  been  found  out.  I  don't  know  why  you  were  in  my 
wife's  rooms  that  night.  Nevertheless,  I  clearly  know 
two  things :  one,  that  you  did  not  murder  the  marchese, 


PRISONERS  45 

and  the  other,  that  there  was  nothing  wrong  between 
you  and  my  wife.  With  you  her  honour  was  safe. 
You  and  I  are  combining  now  to  guard  only  her  repu- 
tation before  the  world." 

Michael  did  not  answer.     He  nodded  again. 

"  At  the  price,"  continued  the  duke,  "  probably  of 
your  best  years." 

"  I  am  content  to  pay  the  price,"  said  Michael.  "  It 
was  the  only  thing  to  do."  Then  he  coloured  like  a  girl, 
and  raised  his  eyes  to  the  duke's.  "  I  went  to  her  that 
night  to  say  good-bye,"  he  said.  "  That  was  why  the 
garden  door  was  unlocked.  I  love  her.  I  have  loved 
her  for  years." 

It  seemed  as  if  everything  between  the  two  men  had 
become  transparent. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  the  duke.  "  She  also,  the  duchess, 
is  in  love  with  you." 

Michael  drew  back  perceptibly.  His  manner 
changed. 

"  A  little — not  much,"  continued  the  duke.  *'  I 
watched  her,  when  you  gave  up  yourself.  She  could 
have  saved  you.  She  could  save  you  still — by  a  word. 
But  she  will  not  speak  it.  She  appeared  to  love  me  a 
little  once.  I  was  not  deceived.  I  knew.  She  loves 
you  a  little  now.  Why  do  you  deceive  yourself,  my 
friend?  There  is  only  one  person  for  whom  she  has  a 
permanent  and  deep  affection — for  her  very  charming 
self." 

The  words  fell  into  the  silence  of  the  bare  room. 
Michael's  thin  hands,  tightly  clenched,  shook  a  little. 

The  duke  bent  towards  him. 

"  Is  she  worth  it?  "  he  said,  with  sudden  passion. 


46  PRISONERS 

No  answer.     Michael  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 
"  Is  she  worth  it?  "  said  the  duke  again. 
Michael  looked  up  suddenly  at  the  duke,  and  the  elder 
man  winced  at  the  expression  in  his  face.     He  looked 
through  the  duke,  through  his  veiled  despair  and  dis- 
illusion, beyond  him. 

"  Yes,  she  is  worth  it,"  he  said.  "  You  do  not  un- 
derstand her  because  you  only  love  her  in  part.  I  meant 
to  serve  her  by  leaving  Rome,  but  now  I  can't  leave  it. 
What  I  can  do  for  her  I  will.  It  is  no  sacrifice — I  am 
glad  to  do  it — to  have  the  chance.  I  have  always 
wished — to  serve  her — to  put  my  hands  under  her 
feet." 

The  sudden  radiance  in  Michael's  face  passed.  He 
looked  down  embarrassed,  annoyed  with  himself. 

'*  There  remains  then  but  one  other  person  to  be 
considered,"  said  the  duke,  looking  closely  at  him.  "  The 
beautiful  heroine,  the  young  lover,  these  are  now  accom- 
modated. All  is  en  regie.  But  that  dull  elderly  per- 
son who  takes  the  role  of  husband  on  these  occa- 
sions! Is  there  not  a  husband  somewhere?  What  of 
him?  Will  he  indeed  fold  his  arms  as  on  the  stage? 
Will  he  indeed  stand  by  as  serenely  as  you  suppose  and 
suffer  an  innocent  man  to  make  this  sacrifice  for  the 
sake  of  his — honour?  " 

"  He  will,  only  because  he  must,"  said  Michael,  catch- 
ing his  breath.  "  I  had  thought  of  that.  He  can  do 
nothing.  Have  I  not  accused  myself?  And  his  honour 
is  also  hers.  They  stand  and  fall  together." 

'  They  stand  and  fall  together,"  said  the  duke  slowly. 

'  Yes,  that  is  true.   And  he  is  old.    He  is  finished.    He 

is  the  head  of  a  great  house.   His  honour  is  perhaps  the 


"  '  IS  SHE  WORTH  IT  ?  '    HE  SAID  WITH  SUDDEX  PASSION"  " 


PRISONERS  47 

only  thing  that  still  means  anything  to  him.  Never- 
theless, it  is  strange  to  me  that  you  think  he  would  con- 
sent to  keep  it  at  so  great  a  cost,  the  cost  perhaps  of 
twenty  years.  That  were  impossible  .  .  .  He 
could  not  permit  that.  But — one  little  year — at  most. 
That  perhaps  his  conscience  might  permit.  One  little 
year !  You  are  young.  Supposing  he  has  within  him," 
he  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  "  that  of  which  his 
wife  does  not  know,  which  means  that  his  release  is  sure. 
Do  you  understand?  Supposing  it  must  come  soon — 

very  soon — her  release — and  yours.  Perhaps  then " 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "  Perhaps  then  his  conscience 
might  suffer  him  to  keep  silence." 

Michael's  hand  made  a  slight  movement.  The  duke 
took  it  in  his,  and  held  it  firmly. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Once  when  I  was  young, 
twenty  years  ago,  I  loved.  I  too  would  fain  have 
served  a  woman,  would  have  put  my  hands  under  her 
feet.  There  is  always  one  such  a  woman  in  life,  but 
only  one.  She  was  to  me  the  world.  But  I  could  only 
trouble  her  life.  She  was  married.  She  had  children. 
I  knew  I  ought  to  go.  I  meant  to  go.  She  prayed  me 
to  go.  I  promised  her  to  go — nevertheless  I  stayed. 
And  at  last — inasmuch  as  she  loved  me  very  much — I 
broke  up  her  home,  her  life,  her  honour,  she  was  sep- 
arated from  her  children.  She  lost  all,  and  then  when 
all  was  gone  she  died.  The  only  thing  which  I  could 
keep  from  her  was  poverty,  which  would  have  been 
nothing  to  her.  She  never  reproached  me.  There  is 
no  reproach  in  love.  But — she  died  in  disgrace,  and 
alone.  From  the  first  to  the  last  it  was  her  white  hands 
under  my  feet.  That  was  how  I  served  the  one  woman 


48  PRISONERS 

I  have  deeply  loved,  the  one  creature  who  deeply  loved 
me."  The  duke's  voice  had  become  almost  inaudible. 
"  You  have  done  better  than  I,"  he  said. 

Then  he  kissed  Michael  on  the  forehead,  and  went 
out. 

They  never  met  again. 


CHAPTER    VI 

The  year  slid  like  a  corpse  afloat. — D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

AND  how  did  it  fare  with  Fay  during  the  days  that 
followed  Michael's  arrest? 

Much  sympathy  was  felt  for  her.  Lord  John,  wal- 
lowing in  the  delicious  novelty  of  finding  eager  listen- 
ers, went  about  extolling  her  courage  and  unselfishness 
to  the  skies.  Her  conduct  was  considered  perfectly 
natural  and  womanly.  No  man  condemned  her  for  try- 
ing to  shield  her  cousin  from  the  consequences  of  his 
crime.  Women  said  they  would  have  done  the  same, 
and  envied  her  her  romantic  situation. 

And  Fay,  shut  up  in  her  darkened  room  in  her  roman- 
tic situation — she  who  adored  romantic  situations — 
what  were  Fay's  thoughts? 

There  is  a  travail  of  soul  which  toils  with  hard  cry- 
ing up  the  dark  valley  of  decision,  and  brings  forth  in 
anguish  the  life  entrusted  to  it.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
great  renunciation.  Perhaps  it  is  only  the  loyal  in- 
evitable deed  which  is  struggling  to  come  forth,  to  be 
allowed  to  live  for  our  healing  and  comfort. 

But  there  is  another  travail  of  soul,  barren,  unavail- 
ing, which  flings  itself  down,  and  tosses  in  impotent 
misery  from  side  to  side,  from  mood  to  mood,  as  in  a 
sickly  trance. 

Such  was  Fay's. 

Her  decision  not  to  speak  had  been  made  in  the  mo- 

49 


50  PRISONERS 

merit  when  she  had  let  Michael  accuse  himself,  and  she 
kept  silence.  But  that  she  did  not  know.  She  thought 
it  was  still  to  make. 

"  I  must  speak.  I  must  speak,"  she  said  to  herself 
all  through  the  endless  day  after  Michael's  arrest,  all 
through  the  endless  night,  until  the  dawn  came  up  be- 
hind the  ilexes,  the  tranquil  dawn  that  knew  all,  and 
found  her  shuddering  and  wild-eyed. 

"  I  must  speak.  I  cannot  let  Michael  suffer  for  me, 
even  to  save  my  reputation." 

Her  reputation!  How  little  she  had  cared  for  it 
twenty-four  hours  ago,  when  passion  clutched  the  reins ! 
But  now—  -  The  public  shame  of  it — the  divorce  which 
in  her  eyes  must  ensue — Andrea!  Her  courteous,  se- 
date, inexorable  husband,  whose  will  she  could  not  bend, 
whom  she  could  not  cajole,  whose  mind  was  a  closed 
book  to  her;  a  book  which  had  lain  by  her  hand  for 
three  years,  which  she  had  never  had  the  curiosity  to 
open ! — Fay  feared  her  husband,  as  we  all  fear  what 
we  do  not  understand.  He  would  divorce  her — and 
then And  Magdalen  at  home — and 

A  flood  of  suffocating  emotion  swept  over  her,  full 
of  ugly  swimming  and  crawling  reptiles,  and  inverte- 
brate horrors,  the  inevitable  scavengers  of  the  sea  of 
selfish  passion. 

Fay  shrank  back  for  very  life.  She  could  not  pass 
through  that  flood  and  live.  Nevertheless  she  felt  her- 
self pushed  towards  it. 

"  But  I  have  no  choice.  I  must  speak.  He  is  inno- 
cent. He  is  doing  this  to  shield  me  because  he  loves 
me.  But  I  also  love  him,  far,  far  more  than  he  loves 
me,  and  I  will  prove  it." 


PRISONERS  51 

Fay  went  in  imagination  through  a  fearful  and  melo- 
dramatic scene,  in  which  she  revealed  everything  before 
a  public  tribunal.  She  saw  her  husband's  face  darken 
against  her,  her  lover's  lighten  as  she  saved  him.  She 
saw  her  slender  figure  standing  alone,  bearing  the 
whole  shock,  serene,  unshaken.  The  vision  moved  her 
to  tears. 

Was  it  a  prophetic  vision? 

It  was  quite  light  now,  and  she  crept  to  her  husband's 
room.  She  had  not  seen  him  during  the  previous  day. 
He  had  been  out  the  whole  of  it.  She  felt  drawn 
towards  him  by  calamity,  by  the  loneliness  of  her  misery. 

The  duke  was  not  asleep.  He  was  lying  in  bed 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head.  His  sallow  face, 
worn  by  a  sleepless  night,  and  perhaps  by  a  wounding 
memory,  was  turned  towards  the  light,  and  the  new 
day  dealt  harshly  with  it.  There  were  heavy  lines 
under  the  eyes.  The  eyes  looked  steadily  in  front  of 
him,  plunged  deep  in  a  past  which  had  something  of 
the  irrevocable  tenderness  of  the  dawn  in  it,  the  holy 
reflection  of  an  inalienable  love. 

He  did  not  stir  as  his  wife  came  in.  His  eyes  only 
moved,  resting  upon  her  for  a  moment,  focussing  her 
with  difficulty,  as  if  withdrawn  from  something  at  a 
great  distance,  and  then  they  turned  once  more  to  the 
window. 

A  pale  primrose  light  had  risen  above  the  blue  tan- 
gled mist  of  ilexes  and  olives.  The  cypresses  stood 
half -veiled  in  mist,  half-sharply  clear  against  the  stain- 
less pallor  of  the  upper  sky. 

"  I  am  so  miserable,  Andrea." 

He  did  not  speak. 


52  PRISONERS 

"  I  cannot  sleep." 

Still  no  answer. 

"  I  am  convinced  that  Michael  is  innocent." 

"  It  goes  without  saying." 

"Then  they  can't  convict  him,  can  they?  " 

"  They  will  convict  him,"  said  the  duke,  and  for  a 
moment  he  bent  his  eyes  upon  her.  "  Has  he  not  ac- 
cused himself?  " 

"  They  won't — hang  him?  " 

The  duke  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  did  not  think 
fit  to  enlighten  his  wife's  ignorance  of  the  fact  that 
in  Italy  there  is  no  capital  punishment. 

"  But  if  he  has  not  done  it,  and  we  know  he  has  not," 
faltered  Fay. 

"  He  is  perhaps  shielding  someone,"  said  the  duke, 
"  the  real  murderer." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  could  be." 

"  He  may  have  his  reasons.  The  real  murderer  is 
perhaps  a  friend — or  a — woman.  Your  cousin  is  a 
romantic.  It  is  always  better  for  a  romantic  if  he  had 
not  been  born.  But  generally  a  female  millstone  is 
in  readiness  to  tie  itself  round  him,  and  cast  him  into 
the  sea.  The  world  is  not  fitted  to  him.  It  is  to 
egotistic  persons  like  you  and  me,  my  Francesca,  to 
whom  the  world  is  most  admirably  adapted." 

"  I  don't  see  how  the  murderer  could  be  a  woman. 
Women  don't  murder  men  on  the  high  road." 

"  No,  not  on  the  high  road.  You  are  in  the  right. 
How  dusty,  how  dirty  is  the  high  road!  But  I  have 
known,  not  once  nor  twice,  women  to  murder  men  very 
quietly.  Oh!  so  gently  and  cleanly — to  let  them  die. 
I  am  much  older  than  you,  but  you  will  perhaps  also 


PRISONERS  53 

live  to  see  a  woman  do  this,  Francesca.  And  now  retire 
to  your  room,  and  let  me  counsel  you  to  take  some  rest. 
Your  beauty  needs  it." 

She  burst  into  tears. 

"  How  little  you  care ! "  she  said  between  her  sobs, 
"  how  heartless  you  are !  I  will  never  believe  they  will 
convict  him.  He  is  innocent,  and  his  innocence  will 
come  to  light." 

"  I  think  the  light  will  not  be  suffered  to  fall  upon 
it,"  said  the  duke. 

Afterwards,  years  afterwards,  Fay  remembered  that 
conversation  with  wonder  that  its  significance  had  es- 
caped her.  But  at  the  time  she  could  see  nothing,  feel 
nothing  except  her  own  anguish. 

She  left  her  husband's  room.  There  was  no  help  or 
sympathy  in  him.  She  went  back  to  her  own  room  and 
flung  herself  face  downwards  on  her  bed.  Let  no  one 
think  she  did  not  suffer. 

A  faint  ray  of  comfort  presently  came  to  her  at  the 
thought  that  Michael's  innocence  might  after  all  come 
to  light.  It  might  be  proved  in  spite  of  himself. 

She  would  pray  incessantly  that  the  real  murderer 
might  give  himself  up,  or  that  suspicion  should  fall 
on  him,  and  he  should  be  dragged  to  justice.  And 
then,  if — after  all — Michael  were  convicted  and  his  life 
endangered,  then  she  must  speak.  But — not  till  then. 
Not  now  when  all  might  yet  go  well  without  her  confes- 
sion. .  .  .  And  it  was  not  as  if  she  were  guilty  of 
unfaithfulness.  She  had  not  done  anything  wrong 
beyond  imprudence.  Yes,  she  had  certainly  been  im- 
prudent; that  she  saw.  But  she  had  done  nothing 
wrong.  It  could  not  be  right  to  confess  to  what  in 


54  PRISONERS 

public  opinion  amounted  to  unfaithfulness  on  her  part, 
and  dishonourable  conduct  on  his,  when  it  was  not  so. 
They  were  both  innocent.  It  would  be  telling  a  lie 
to  let  anyone  think  either  of  them  could  be  guilty  of 
such  a  sordid  crime.  It  looked  sordid  now.  Why 
should  she  drag  down  his  name  with  hers  into  the 
mud — unless  it  were  absolutely  necessary.  .  .  . 
And  she  must  remember  how  distressed  Michael  would 
be  if  she  said  a  word,  if  she  flung  her  good  name  from 
her,  which  he  had  risked  all  to  save.  Some  semblance 
of  calm  returned  to  her,  as  she  thus  reached  the  only 
conclusion  which  the  bias  of  her  mind  would  permit. 
The  stream  ran  docilely  in  the  little  groove  cut  out 
for  it. 

During  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed  Fay  shut 
herself  up,  and  prayed  incessantly  for  Michael. 

She  prayed  all  through  the  interminable  interval 
before  the  trial. 

"  If  it  goes  against  him,  I  will  speak,"  she  said. 

Yet  all  the  time  Michael  who  loved  her  knew  that  she 
would  not  speak.  Her  husband  who  could  have  loved 
her,  and  who  watched  her  struggle  with  compassion, 
knew  that  she  would  not  speak.  Only  Fay  who  did  not 
know  herself  believed  that  she  would  speak. 

The  day  came  when  the  duke  gravely  informed  her 
that  Michael  was  found  guilty  of  murder. 

Fay's  prayers  it  seemed  had  not  availed.  She  prayed 
no  more.  There  was  no  help  in  God.  Probably  there 
was  no  God  to  pray  to.  Her  sister  Magdalen  seemed 
to  think  there  was.  But  how  could  she  tell?  Besides, 
Magdalen  had  such  a  calm  temperament,  and  nothing 


PRISONERS  55 

had  ever  happened  to  make  her  unhappy,  or  to  shake 
her  faith.  It  was  different  for  Magdalen. 

Evidently  there  was  no  justice  anywhere,  only  a 
blind  chance.  "  The  truth  will  out,"  Fay  had  said  to 
herself  over  and  over  again.  She  had  tried  to  have 
faith.  But  the  truth  had  not  come  out.  She  was 
being  pushed,  pushed  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 
Oh,  why  had  Michael  fallen  in  love  with  her  when  they 
were  boy  and  girl!  She  remembered  with  horror  and 
disgust  those  early  days,  that  exquisite  dawn  of  young 
passion  in  the  time  of  primroses.  It  had  brought  her 
to  this — to  this  horrible  place  of  tears  and  shame  and 
shuddering — to  these  wretched  days  and  hideous 
nights.  Oh,  why,  why,  had  he  loved  her!  Why  had 
she  let  herself  love  him ! 

Suddenly  she  said  to  herself,  "  They  may  reprieve 
him  yet.  If  his  sentence  is  not  commuted  to  imprison- 
ment I  will  speak,  so  help  me  God  I  will." 

It  could  never  be  known  whether  she  would  have  kept 
that  oath,  for  the  next  day  she  heard  that  Michael  had 
been  sentenced  to  fifteen  years'  imprisonment.  Why 
had  Andrea  been  so  cruel  as  to  let  her  imagine  for  a 
whole  horrible  night  that  Michael's  would  be  a  death 
sentence,  when  in  Italy  it  seemed  there  was  no  capital 
punishment  as  in  England?  It  was  just  like  Andrea 
to  torture  her  needlessly !  When  the  sentence  reached 
her  Fay  drew  breath.  The  horrible  catastrophe  had 
been  averted.  To  a  man  of  Michael's  temperament 
the  living  grave  to  which  he  was  consigned  was  infi- 
nitely worse  than  death.  But  what  was  Michael's  tem- 
perament to  Fay?  She  shut  her  eyes  to  the  cell  of 
an  Italian  prison.  Michael  would  live,  and  in  time 


56  PRISONERS 

the    truth    would    come    to    light,    and    he    would    be 
released. 

She  impressed  this  conviction  with  tears  on  his 
half-brother  Wentworth  Maine,  the  kind,  silent  elder 
brother,  Michael's  greatest  friend,  who  had  come  out 
to  Italy  to  be  near  him,  and  who  heard  sentence  given 
against  him  with  a  set  face,  and  an  unshaken  belief  in 
his  innocence.  Even  to  Wentworth  Michael  had  said 
nothing,  could  be  induced  to  say  no  word.  He  con- 
fessed to  the  murder.  That  was  all. 

Wentworth,  who  had  never  seen  Fay  before,  as  she  had 
married  just  before  he  came  to  live  at  his  uncle's  place 
in  Hampshire  near  Fay's  home,  saw  the  marks  of"  grief 
in  her  lovely  face,  and  was  unconsciously  drawn  towards 
her.  He  was  shy  as  only  men  can  be;  but  he  almost 
forgot  it  in  her  sympathetic  presence.  She  came  into 
his  isolated,  secluded  life  at  the  moment  when  the  bar- 
riers of  his  instinctive  timidity  and  apathy  were  broken 
down  by  his  first  real  trouble.  And  he  was  grateful 
to  her  for  having  done  her  best  to  save  Michael. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that,"  he  said,  when  he  came 
to  bid  her  good-bye.  "  There  are  very  few  women 
who  would  have  had  the  courage  and  unselfishness  to 
act  as  you  did." 

Fay  winced  and  paled,  and  he  took  his  leave,  bearing 
away  with  him  a  grave  admiration  for  this  delicate, 
sensitive  creature,  so  full  of  tender  compassion  for  him 
and  Michael. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  see  her  again  when  he  re- 
turned to  Italy  some  months  later  to  visit  Michael  in 
prison.  To  visit  Fay  on  that  occasion  would  have 
taken  him  somewhat  out  of  his  way,  and  Wentworth 


PRISONERS  57 

never  went  out  of  his  way,  not  out  of  principle,  but 
because  such  a  course  never  occurred  to  him.  He  would 
have  liked  to  see  her,  in  order  to  tell  her  about  Mi- 
chael's condition,  and  also  to  deliver  in  person  a  mes- 
sage which  Michael  had  sent  to  Fay  by  him.  But  when 
he  realised  that  a  detour  would  be  necessary  in  ordei  to 
accomplish  this,  he  wrote  to  Fay  to  tell  her  with  deep 
regret  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  see  her,  gave 
her  Michael's  message,  and  returned  to  England  by  the 
way  he  came.  Nevertheless,  he  often  thought  of  her, 
for  she  was  inextricably  associated  with  the  unspeak- 
able trouble  of  his  life,  his  brother's  living  death. 

When  all  was  over,  and  the  last  sod  had — so  to 
speak — been  cast  upon  that  living  grave,  Fay  tried  to 
take  up  her  life  again.  But  she  could  not.  She  had 
lost  heart.  She  dared  not  be  alone.  She  shunned  so- 
ciety. At  her  earnest  request  her  sister  Magdalen 
came  out  to  her  for  a  time,  from  the  home  in  England, 
into  which  she  was  wedged  so  tightly.  But  even  Mag- 
dalen's calm  presence  brought  no  calm  with  it,  and  the 
deepening  friendship  between  her  sister  and  her  hus- 
band only  irritated  Fay.  Everything  irritated  Fay. 
She  was  ill  at  ease,  restless,  feebly  sarcastic,  impatient. 

There  is  a  peace  which  passes  understanding,  and 
there  is  an  unpeace  which  passes  understanding  also. 
Fay  did  not  know,  would  not  know,  why  she  was  so 
troubled,  so  weary  of  life,  so  destitute  of  comfort. 

Had  she  met  the  great  opportunity  of  her  life,  the 
turning  point,  and  missed  it?  I  do  not  think  so.  It 
was  not  for  her. 

A  year  later  the  duke  died. 


58  PRISONERS 

He  made  a  dignified  exit.  An  attack  of  vertigo  to 
which  he  was  liable  came  on  when  he  was  on  horseback. 
He  was  thrown  and  dragged,  and  only  survived  a  few 
days  as  by  a  miracle.  His  wife,  who  had  seen  little  of 
him  during  the  last  year,  saw  still  less  of  him  during 
the  days  of  his  short  illness.  But  when  the  end  was 
close  at  hand  he  sent  for  her,  and  asked  her  to  remain 
in  a  distant  recess  of  his  room  during  the  painful 
hours. 

"  It  will  be  a  happier  memory  for  you,"  he  said 
gently  to  her  between  the  paroxysms  of  suffering,  "  to 
think  that  you  were  there." 

And  so  propped  high  in  a  great  carved  bedstead  in 
the  octagonal  room  where  the  Colle  Altos  were  born, 
and  where,  when  they  could  choose,  they  died,  the  duke 
lay  awaiting  the  end. 

He  had  received  extreme  unction.  The  chanting 
choir  had  gone.  The  priest  had  closed  his  pale  fingers 
upon  the  crucifix,  when  he  desired  to  be  left  alone  with 
his  wife. 

She  drew  near  timidly  and  stood  beside  his  bed. 

He  bent  his  tranquil,  kindly  eyes  upon  her. 

"  Good-bye,  my  Francesca,"  he  said.  "  May  God 
and  his  angels  protect  you,  and  give  you  peace." 

A  belated  compunction  seized  her. 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  a  better  wife  to  you,  Andrea," 
she  said  brokenly,  laying  her  hand  on  his. 

He  made  the  ghost  of  a  courteous,  deprecating  ges- 
ture, and  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  The  effort  ex- 
hausted him.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  his  hand  fell  out 
of  hers. 

Through  the  open  window  came  a  sudden  waft  of 


PRISONERS  59 

hot  carnations,  a  long  drawn  breath  of  the  rapturous 
Italian  spring. 

It  reached  the  duke.  He  stirred  slightly,  and  opened 
his  eyes  once  more.  Once  more  they  fell  on  Fay,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  with  the  last  touch  of  his  cold 
lips  upon  her  hand  their  relation  of  husband  and  wife 
had  ceased.  Even  at  that  moment  she  realised  with  a 
sinking  sense  of  impotence  how  slight  her  hold  on  him 
from  first  to  last  had  been.  Clearly  he  had  already 
forgotten  it,  passed  beyond  it,  would  never  remember 
it  again. 

"  It  is  spring,"  he  said,  looking  full  at  her  with  ten- 
der fixity,  and  for  a  moment  she  thought  his  mind  was 
wandering.  "  Spring  once  more.  The  sun  shines. 
He  does  not  see  them,  the  spring  and  the  sunshine. 
Since  a  year  he  does  not  see  them.  Francesca,  how 
much  longer  will  you  keep  your  cousin  Michael  in 
prison?  " 

And  thereupon  the  duke  closed  his  eyes  on  this  world, 
and  went  upon  his  way. 


A  bachelor's  an  unfinished  thing  .  .  .  He  wants  some- 
body to  listen  to  his  talk. — EDEN  PHILLPOTTS. 

READER,  do  you  know  Barford,  in  Hampshire?  If 
you  don't,  I  can  tell  you  how  to  get  to  it.  You  take 
train  from  Victoria,  and  you  get  out  at  Saundersfoot. 
There  is  nothing  at  Saundersfoot,  except  a  wilderness 
of  lodgings  and  a  tin  station  and  a  high  wind.  It  need 
not  detain  an  active  mind  beyond  the  necessary  moment 
of  enquiring  by  which  road  it  may  be  most  quickly 
left.  I  cannot  tell  you  who  Saunders  was,  nor  why 
the  watering-place  was  called  after  his  foot.  But  if 
you  walk  steadily  away  from  it  for  five  miles  inland, 
along  the  white  chalky  road  between  the  downs,  you 
will  arrive  at  the  little  village  of  Barford. 

There  is  only  one  road,  so  you  cannot  miss  your 
way.  Little  twisty  lanes  fretted  with  sheep-tracks 
drop  down  into  it  now  and  then  from  the  broad- 
shouldered  downs  on  either  side,  but  take  no  notice  of 
them.  If  you  persevere,  you  will  in  due  course  see  the 
village  of  Barford  lying  in  front  of  you,  which,  at 
a  little  distance,  looks  as  if  it  had  been  carelessly  swept 
into  a  crease  between  the  downs,  while  a  few  cottages 
and  houses  on  the  hillside  seem  to  have  adhered  to  the 
ground,  and  remained  stuck  where  they  were  when  the 
sweeping  took  place. 

After  you  have  passed  the  pond  and  the  post  office, 
and  before  you  reach  the  school,  you  will  see  a  lodge, 

60 


PRISONERS  61 

and  an  old  Italian  iron  gateway,  flanked  by  a  set  of 
white  wooden  knobs  planted  in  the  ground  on  either 
side,  held  together  by  chains.  The  white  knobs  are 
apparently  there  in  order  to  upset  carriages  as  they 
drive  in  or  out.  But  very  few  carriages  have  driven 
in  or  out  during  the  last  two  years,  except  those  of 
the  owner  of  Barford  Manor,  Wentworth  Maine. 
Wentworth,  since  he  inherited  the  place  from  his  uncle 
five  years  ago,  had  always  led  a  somewhat  secluded  life. 
But  during  the  last  two  years,  ever  since  his  half- 
brother,  Michael,  had  been  sentenced  and  imprisoned 
in  Italy,  Wentworth  had  withdrawn  himself  even  more 
from  the  society  of  his  neighbours.  He  continued  to 
shoot  and  hunt,  and  to  do  his  duties  as  a  magistrate 
and  as  a  supporter  of  the  Conservative  party,  but  his 
thin,  refined  face  had  a  certain  worn,  pinched  look, 
which  spoke  of  long  tracts  of  solitary  unhappiness. 
And  the  habit  of  solitude  was  growing  on  him. 

The  old  Manor  House,  standing  in  its  high-walled 
gardens,  its  sunny  low  rooms  looking  out  across  the 
down,  seemed  wrapped  in  an  atmosphere  of  ancient 
peace,  which  consorted  as  ill  with  the  present  impression 
of  the  place  as  does  old  Gobelin  tapestry  with  a  careful 
modern  patch  upon  its  surface.  The  patch,  however, 
adroitly  copied,  is  seen  to  be  an  innovation. 

The  old  house,  which  had  known  so  much,  had  shel- 
tered so  much,  had  kept  counsel  so  long,  seemed  to  re- 
sent the  artificial  peace  that  its  present  owner  had 
somewhat  laboriously  constructed  round  himself,  within 
its  mellow,  ivied  walls. 

There  is  a  fictitious  tranquillity  which  is  always  on 
the  verge  of  being  broken,  which  depends  largely  on 


62  PRISONERS 

uninterrupted  hours,  on  confidential,  velvet-shod  serv- 
ants, on  a  brooding  dove  in  a  cedar,  on  the  absence  of 
the  inharmonious  or  jarring  elements  which  pervade 
daily  life. 

Such  an  imitation  peace,  coy  as  a  fickle  mistress, 
Wentworth  cherished.  Was  it  worth  all  the  trouble 
he  took  to  preserve  it,  when  the  real  thing  lay  at  his 
very  door? 

On  this  February  morning,  as  he  sat  looking  out 
across  the  down,  white  in  the  pale  sunshine,  the  cur- 
rent of  his  life  ran  low.  He  had  returned  the  night 
before  from  one  of  his  periodical  journeys  to  Italy  to 
visit  Michael  in  his  cell.  He  was  tired  with  the  clang 
and  hurry  of  the  long  journey,  depressed  almost  to 
despair  by  the  renewed  realisation  of  his  brother's  fate. 
Two  years — close  on  two  years,  had  Michael  been  in 
prison. 

In  Wentworth's  faithful  heart  that  wound  never 
healed.  To-day  it  bled  afresh.  He  bit  his  lip,  and  his 
face  quivered. 

Wentworth  was  not  as  handsome  as  Michael,  but, 
nevertheless,  he  was  distinctly  good  to  look  at,  and 
the  half-brothers,  in  spite  of  the  fifteen  years'  differ- 
ence between  their  ages,  bore  a  certain  superficial 
resemblance  to  each  other.  Wentworth  was  of  middle 
height,  lightly  and  leanly  built,  with  a  high  bridge  on 
a  rather  thin  nose,  and  with  narrow,  clean  grey  eyes 
under  light  eyelashes.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
made  up  of  different  shades  of  one  colour.  His  light 
brown  hair  had  a  little  grey  in  it,  his  delicately  cut  face 
and  nervous  hands  were  both  tanned,  by  persistent 


PRISONERS  63 

exposure  to  all  kinds  of  weather,  to  nearly  the  same 
shade  of  indeterminate  brown  as  his  hair. 

You  could  not  look  at  Wentworth  without  seeing 
that  he  was  a  man  who  had  never  even  glanced  at  the 
ignoble  side  of  life,  for  whose  fastidious,  sensitive 
nature  sensual  lures  had  no  attraction,  a  man  who 
could  not  lie,  who  could  not  stoop,  whose  mind  was  as 
clean  as  his  hand,  and,  for  an  Englishman,  that  is  say- 
ing a  good  deal.  He  was  manly  in  a  physical  sense.  He 
rode  straight,  he  shot  well.  He  could  endure  bodily 
strain  with  indifference,  though  he  was  not  robustly 
built.  He  was  sane,  even-tempered,  liable  to  petty  re- 
sentments, mildly  and  resolutely  selfish,  except  where 
Michael  was  concerned,  a  conscientious  and  just  mas- 
ter— at  least,  just  in  intention — a  patient  and  respect- 
ful son  where  patience  and  respect  had  not  been  easy. 

The  strain  of  scholar  and  student  in  him  was  about 
evenly  mixed  with  that  of  the  country  gentleman.  The 
result  was  a  certain  innate  sense  of  superiority  which 
he  was  not  in  the  least  aware  that  he  showed.  He  had 
no  idea  that  he  was  considered  "  fine,"  and  "  thinking 
a  good  deal  of  himself,"  by  the  more  bucolic  of  his 
country  neighbours.  No  one  could  say  that  Went- 
worth was  childlike,  but  perhaps  he  was  a  little  childish. 
He  certainly  had  a  naif  and  unshakable  belief  that 
the  impressions  he  had  formed  as  to  his  own  character 
were  shared  by  others.  He  supposed  it  was  recognised 
by  his  neighbours  that  they  had  a  thinker  in  their 
midst,  and  always  tacitly  occupied  the  ground  which 
he  imagined  had  been  conceded  'to  him  on  that  account. 

His  mother,  a  beautiful,  foolish,  whimsical,  hard- 
riding  heiress,  the  last  of  a  long  line,  had  married  the 


64  PRISONERS 

youngest  son — the  one  brilliant,  cultivated  member — 
of  a  family  as  ancient,  as  uneducated,  and  as  prosaic 
as  her  own.  Wentworth  was  the  result  of  that  union. 
His  father  had  died  before  his  talents  were  fully  rec- 
ognised: that  is  to  say,  just  when  it  was  beginning  to 
be  perceived  that  he  was  a  genius  only  in  his  own  class, 
and  that  there  were  hordes  of  educated  men  in  the 
middle  classes  who  could  beat  him  at  every  point  on  his 
own  ground,  except  in  carriage  and  appearance,  and 
whom  no  one  regarded  as  specially  gifted.  Still,  in 
his  own  county, — among  his  own  friends,  and  in  a 
society  where  education  and  culture  eke  out  a  pre- 
carious, interloping  existence,  and  are  regarded  with 
distrustful  curiosity,  Lord  Wilfrid  Maine  lived  and 
died,  and  was  mourned  as  a  genius. 

After  many  years  of  uneasy,  imprudent  widowhood, 
the  widow  of  the  great  man  had  made  a  disastrous 
second  marriage,  and  had  died  at  Michael's  birth. 

No  one  had  disputed  with  Wentworth  over  the  pos- 
session of  Michael.  Wentworth,  a  sedate,  self-centred 
young  man  of  three-and-twenty,  of  independent  means, 
mainly  occupied  in  transcribing  the  nullity  of  his  days 
in  a  voluminous  diary,  had  taken  charge  of  him  virtu- 
ally from  his  first  holidays,  during  which  Michael's 
father  had  achieved  the  somewhat  tedious  task  of  drink- 
ing himself  to  death.  Michael's  father  had  appointed 
Wentworth  as  his  son's  guardian.  If  it  had  been  a 
jealous  affection  on  Wentworth's  part,  it  had  also  been 
a  deep  one.  And  it  had  been  returned  with  a  single- 
hearted  devotion  on  Michael's  part  which  had  grad- 
ually knit  together  the  hearts  of  the  older  and  the 
younger  man,  as  it  seemed  indissolubly.  No  one  had 


PRISONERS  65 

come  between  them.  Once  or  twice  Wentworth  had  be- 
come uneasy,  suspicious  of  Michael's  affection  for  his 
tutor  at  Eton,  distrustful  of  the  intimacies  Michael, 
formed  with  boys,  and,  later  on,  with  men  of  his  own 
age.  Wentworth  had  nipped  a  few  of  these  incipient 
friendships  in  the  bud.  He  vaguely  felt  that  each  case, 
judged  by  its  own  merits,  was  undesirable.  Some  of 
these  friendships  he  had  not  been  able  to  nip.  These 
he  ignored ;  among  that  number  was  Michael's  affection 
for  his  godfather,  the  Bishop  of  Lostford.  Michael's 
boyish  passion  for  Fay,  Wentworth  had  never  divined. 
It  had  come  about  during  the  last  year  of  his  great 
uncle's  life  at  Barford,  which  was  within  a  few  miles 
of  Priesthope,  Fay's  home.  Michael  had  spent  many 
weeks  at  Barford  with  the  old  man,  who  was  devoted 
to  him.  Everyone  had  expected  that  he  would  make 
Michael  his  heir,  but  when  he  died  soon  afterwards,  it 
was  found  he  had  left  the  place,  in  a  will  dated  many 
years  back,  to  Wentworth.  If  Michael  had  never 
mentioned  his  first  painful  contact  with  life  to  Went- 
worth, it  was  perhaps  partly  because  he  instinctively 
felt  that  the  confidence  would  be  coldly  received,  partly 
also  because  Michael  was  a  man  of  few  words,  to  whom 
speech  had  never  taken  the  shape  of  relief. 

There  had  no  doubt  been  wretched  moments  in  Went- 
worth's  devotion  to  Michael,  but  nevertheless  it  had 
been  the  best  thing  so  far  in  his  somewhat  colourless 
existence,  with  its  hesitating  essays  in  other  directions,, 
its  half-hearted  withdrawals,  its  pigeon-holed  emotions.; 
He  had  not  been  half-hearted  about  Michael.  It  is 
perhaps  natural  that  we  should  love  very  deeply  those 
who  have  had  the  power  to  release  us  momentarily; 


66  PRISONERS 

from  the  airless  prison  of  our  own  egotism.  How  often 
it  is  a  child's  hand  which  first  opens  that  iron  door, 
and  draws  us  forth  into  the  sunshine!  With  Went- 
worth  it  had  been  so.  The  pure  air  of  the  moorland, 
the  scent  of  the  heather  and  the  sea  seem  indissolubly 
mingled  with  the  remembrance  of  those  whom  we  have 
loved.  For  did  we  not  in  their  company  walk  abroad 
into  a  new  world,  breathe  a  new  air,  while  Self,  the 
dingy  turnkey,  for  once  slept  at  his  post? 

One  of  the  reasons  of  his  devotion  to  Michael  was 
that  Michael's  character  did  not  apparently  or  per- 
ceptibly alter.  He  was  very  much  the  same  person 
in  his  striped  convict's  blouse  as  he  had  been  in  his 
Eton  jacket.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether  Wentworth 
had  ever  realised  of  what  materials  that  character 
consisted.  Wentworth  was  of  those  who  never  get 
the  best  out  of  men  and  women,  who  never  divine  and 
meet,  but  only  come  into  surprised  uncomfortable  con- 
tact with  their  deeper  emotions.  Michael's  passion  of 
service  for  Fay  would  have  been  a  great  shock  to  Went- 
worth had  he  suspected  it.  It  remained  for  the  duke 
to  perceive  the  latent  power  in  Michael,  and  to  be 
taken  instantly  into  his  confidence  on  the  matter,  while 
Wentworth,  unwitting,  had  remained  for  life  outside 
his  brother's  mind. 

Some  men  and  women  are  half  conscious  that  they 
are  thus  left  out,  are  companions  only  of  "  the  outer 
court "  of  the  lives  of  others.  But  Wentworth  never 
suspected  this,  partly  because  he  regarded  as  friend- 
ship a  degree  of  intimacy  which  most  men  and  all 
women  regard  as  acquaintanceship.  He  did  not  know 
there  was  anythincr  more.  Those  from  whom  others 


PRISONERS  67 

need  much,  learn  perforce,  whether  they  will  or  no,  to 
what  heights,  to  what  depths  human  nature  can  climb 
and — fall.  But  Wentworth  was  not  a  person  on  whom 
others  made  large  demands.  But  if  his  love  for 
Michael  had  been  his  one  tangible  happiness,  it  had 
become  now  his  one  real  pain. 

Contrary  to  all  his  habits,  he  sat  on,  hour  after 
hour,  motionless,  inert,  watching  the  cloud  shadows 
pass  across  the  down.  He  tried  to  rouse  himself.  He 
told  himself  that  he  must  settle  back  into  his  old  occu- 
pations. He  must  get  forward  with  his  history  of 
Sussex,  and  write  up  his  diary.  He  must  come  to  some 
decision  about  the  allotment  scheme  on  his  property 
in  Saundersfoot.  He  must  go  over  and  help  Colonel 
Bellairs  not  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  about  the  dis- 
puted right  of  way  across  his  property  where  it  joined 
Wentworth's  own  land.  Colonel  Bellairs  always  bun- 
gled into  business  matters  of  the  simplest  nature  as 
a  bumble  bee  bungles  into  a  spider's  web.  For  Colonel 
Bellairs  to  touch  business  of  any  kind  was  immediately 
to  become  hopelessly  and  inextricably  involved  in  it, 
with  much  furious  buzzing.  His  mere  presence  en- 
tangled the  plainest  matter  into  a  confused  cocoon, 
with  himself  struggling  in  the  middle. 

Wentworth  must  save  the  old  autocrat  from  putting 
himself  in  the  wrong,  when  he  was  so  plainly  in  the 
right.  Wentworth  must  at  any  rate,  if  he  could  do 
nothing  else  this  morning,  read  his  letters,  which  had 
accumulated  during  his  short  absence. 

Without  moving  from  his  chair  he  turned  over,  with 
a  groan,  the  pile  of  envelopes  waiting  for  him  at  his 
elbow.  Invitations,  bills,  tenants'  complaints,  an  un- 


68  PRISONERS 

expected  dividend.  It  was  all  one  to  him.  The  Bishop 
of  Lostford — so  his  secretary  wrote — accepted  Went- 
worth's  invitation  to  dine  and  sleep  at  Barford  that 
night,  after  holding  a  confirmation  at  Saundersfoot. 
Wentworth  had  forgotten  he  had  asked  him.  Very 
well,  he  must  remember  to  order  a  room  to  be  got 
ready.  That  was  all.  A  subscription  earnestly  solic- 
ited by  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring  clergyman  for 
a  parish  library.  Why  could  he  not  be  left  in  peace? 
Oh!  what  was  the  use  of  anything — of  life,  health, 
money,  intellect,  if  existence  was  always  to  be  like 
this,  if  every  day  was  to  be  like  this,  only  like  this? 
This  weary,  dry-as-dust  grind,  this  making  a  handful 
of  bricks  out  of  a  cartload  of  straw,  this  distaste  and 
fatigue,  and  sense  of  being  duped  by  satisfaction, 
which  was  only  another  form  of  dissatisfaction,  after 
all.  What  was  the  use  of  living  exactly  as  you  liked, 
if  you  did  not  like  it?  Oh,  Michael !  Michael !  Michael ! 
He  forgot  that  he  had  often  been  nearly  as  miserable 
as  this  when  Michael  had  been  free  and  happy.  Not 
quite,  but  nearly.  Now  he  attributed  the  whole  of  his 
recurrent  wretchedness,  which  was  largely  tempera- 
mental, to  his  distress  about  his  brother's  fate. 

That  wound,  never  healed,  bled  afresh.  Who  felt 
for  him  in  his  trouble?  Who,  among  all  his  friends, 
cared,  or  understood?  No  one.  That  was  the  way  of 
the  world. 

Fay's  sweet,  forlorn  face,  snowdrop  pale  under  its 
long  black  veil,  rose  suddenly  before  him,  as  he  ha4 
seen  it  some  weeks  ago,  when  he  had  met  her  walking 
in  the  woods  near  her  father's  house.  She  had  gone 
back  to  her  old  home  after  the  duke's  death.  She,  at 


PRISONERS  69 

least,  had  grieved  for  him  and  Michael  with  an  in- 
tensity which  he  had  never  forgotten.  Even  in  her 
widowed  desolation  she  had  remembered  Michael,  and 
always  asked  after  him  when  Wentworth  went  over  to 
Priesthope.  And  Wentworth  was  often  there,  for  one 
reason  or  another.  Michael,  too,  had  asked  after  her, 
and  had  sent  her  a  message  by  his  brother.  Should 
he  go  over  to-day  and  deliver  it  in  person?  Among 
his  letters  was  a  scrawling,  illegible  note,  already  sev- 
eral days  old,  from  Colonel  Bellairs,  Fay's  father, 
about  the  right  of  way.  The  matter,  it  seemed,  was 
more  urgent  than  Wentworth  had  realised.  Any  mat- 
ter pertaining  to  Colonel  Bellairs  was  always,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  latter,  of  momentous  urgency. 

Colonel  Bellairs  asked  Wentworth  to  come  over  to 
luncheon  the  first  day  he  could,  and  to  walk  over  the 
debatable  ground  with  him. 

Wentworth  looked  at  his  watch,  started  up  and  rang 
the  bell,  and  ordered  his  cob  Conrad  to  be  brought 
round  at  once. 


CHAPTER    VHI 

Le  plus  grand  element  des  mauvaises  actions  secretes, 
des  lachetes  inconnues,  est  peut-etre  un  honheur  incomplet. 

— BALZAC. 

WHEN  Fay,  in  her  panic-stricken  widowhood,  had  fled 
back  to  her  old  home  in  Hampshire,  she  found  all  very 
much  as  she  had  left  it,  except  that  her  father's  hair 
was  damply  dyed,  her  sister  Magdalen's  frankly  grey, 
and  the  pigtail  of  Bessie,  the  youngest  daughter, 
was  now  an  imposing  bronze  coil  in  the  nape  of  her 
neck. 

But  if  little  else  was  radically  changed  in  the  old 
home  except  the  hair  of  the  family,  nevertheless,  the 
whole  place  had  somehow  declined  and  shrunk  in  Fay's 
eyes  during  the  three  years  of  her  marriage.  The  dear 
old  gabled  Tudor  house,  with  its  twisted  chimneys, 
looked  much  the  same  from  the  outside,  but  within, 
in  spite  of  its  wealth  of  old  pictures  and  cabinets  and 
china,  it  had  contracted  the  dim,  melancholy  aspect 
which  is  the  result  of  prolonged  scarcity  of  money. 
Nothing  had  been  spent  on  the  place  for  years.  Mag- 
dalen seemed  to  have  faded  together  with  the  curtains, 
and  the  darned  carpets,  and  the  bleached  chintzes. 

Colonel  Bellairs  alone,  a  handsome  man  of  sixty,  had 
remained  remarkably  young  for  his  age.  The  balance, 
however,  was  made  even  by  the  fact  that  those  who 
lived  with  him  grew  old  before  their  time.  It  had  been 

70 


PRISONERS  71 

so  with  his  wife.  It  was  obviously  so  with  his  eldest 
daughter.  Many  men  as  superficially  affectionate  as 
Colonel  Bellairs,  and  at  heart  as  callous,  as  exacting 
and  as  inconsiderate,  have  made  endurable  husbands. 
But  Colonel  Bellairs  was  not  only  irresolute  and  vacil- 
lating and  incapable  of  even  the  most  necessary 
decisions,  but  he  was  an  inveterate  enemy  of  all  deci- 
sion on  the  part  of  others,  inimical  to  all  suggested 
arrangements  or  plans  for  household  convenience. 
The  words  "  spring  cleaning  "  could  never  be  mentioned 
in  his  presence.  The  thing  itself  could  only  be  achieved 
by  stealth.  A  month  at  the  seaside  for  the  sake  of 
the  children  was  a  subject  that  could  not  be  ap- 
proached. All  small  feminine  social  arrangements, 
dependent  for  their  accomplishment  on  the  use  of  the 
horses,  were  mown  down  like  grass.  Colonel  Bellairs 
hated  what  he  called  "  living  by  clockwork." 

You  may  read,  if  you  care  to  do  so,  in  the  faces  of 
many  gentle-tempered  and  apparently  prosperous  mar- 
ried women,  an  enormous  fatigue.  Wicked,  blood- 
curdling husbands  do  not  bring  this  look  into  women's 
faces.  It  is  men  like  Colonel  Bellairs  who  hold  the 
recipe  for  calling  it  into  existence. 

Mrs.  Bellairs,  a  beautiful  woman,  with  high  spirits, 
but  not  high-spirited,  became  more  and  more  silent 
and  apathetic  year  by  year,  yielded  more  and  more 
and  more,  yielded  at  last  without  expostulation  equally 
at  every  point,  when  she  should  have  yielded  and  when 
she  should  have  stood  firm,  yielded  at  last  even  where 
her  children's  health  and  well-being  were  concerned. 

Apathy  and  health  are  seldom  housemates  for  long 
together.  Mrs.  Bellairs  gradually  declined  from  her 


72  PRISONERS 

chair  to  her  sofa.  She  made  no  effort  to  live  after  her 
youngest  daughter  was  born.  She  could  have  done  so 
if  she  had  wished  it,  but  she  seemed  to  have  no  wish 
on  the  subject,  or  on  any  other  subject.  There  is  an 
Arabian  proverb  which  seems  to  embody  in  it  all  the 
melancholy  of  the  desert,  and  Mrs.  Bellairs  exemplified 
it.  "  It  is  better  to  sit  than  to  stand.  It  is  better  to 
lie  than  to  sit.  It  is  better  to  sleep  than  to  lie.  It  is 
better  to  die  than  to  sleep." 

Fay  had  been  glad  enough,  as  we  have  seen,  to  es- 
cape from  home  by  marriage.  No  such  way  of  escape 
had  apparently  presented  itself  for  the  elder  sister. 
As  Magdalen  and  Fay  sat  together  on  the  terrace  in 
front  of  the  house,  the  contrast  between  the  sisters  was 
more  marked  than  the  ten  years'  difference  of  age 
seemed  to  warrant. 

Magdalen  was  a  tall,  thin  woman  of  thirty-five,  who 
looked  older  than  her  age.  She  had  evidently  been 
extremely  pretty  once.  Perhaps  she  might  even  have 
been  young  once.  But  it  must  have  been  a  long  time 
ago.  She  was  a  faded,  distinguished-looking  person, 
with  a  slight  stoop,  and  a  worn,  delicately-featured 
face,  and  humorous,  tranquil  eyes.  Her  thick  hair  was 
grey.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  borne  for  many  years 
the  brunt  of  continued  ill  health,  or  the  ill  health  of 
others,  as  if  she  had  been  obliged  to  lift  heavy  weights 
too  young.  Perhaps  she  had.  Everything  about  her 
personality  seemed  fragile  except  her  peace  of  mind. 
You  could  not  look  at  Magdalen  without  seeing  that 
she  was  a  happy  creature. 

But  very  few  did  look  at  her  when  Fay  was  beside 
her.  Fay's  beauty  had  increased  in  some  ways  and 


PRISONERS  75 

youth  a  sort  of  resentful  protest  against  the  attitude 
of  her  family  at  her  advent,  namely,  that  she  was  not 
wanted.  Her  mother  had  died  at  her  birth,  and  for 
several  years  afterwards  her  father  had  studiously 
ignored  her  presence  in  the  house,  not  without  a  sense 
of  melancholy  satisfaction  at  this  proof  of  his  devo- 
tion to  her  mother. 

"  No,  no.  It  may  be  unreasonable.  It  may  be  fool- 
ish," he  was  wont  to  say  to  friends  who  had  not 
accused  him  of  unreasonableness,  "  but  don't  ask  me 
to  be  fond  of  that  child.  I  can't  look  at  her  without 
remembering  what  her  birth  cost  me." 

Bessie  was  a  fine,  strong  young  woman,  with  a  per- 
fectly impassive  handsome  face — no  Bellairs  could 
achieve  plainness — and  the  manner  of  one  who  moves 
among  fellow  creatures  who  do  not  come  up  to  the 
standard  of  conduct  which  she  has  selected  as  the  low- 
est permissible  to  herself  and  others.  Bessie  had  not 
so  far  evinced  a  preference  for  anyone  in  her  own 
family  circle,  or  outside  it.  Her  affections  consisted 
so  far  of  a  distinct  dislike  of  and  contempt  for  her 
father.  She  had  accorded  to  Fay  a  solemn  compassion 
when  first  the  latter  returned  to  Priesthope.  Indeed, 
the  estrangement  between  the  sisters,  brought  about 
by  the  suggested  course  of  reading,  had  been  the  un- 
fortunate result  of  a  cogitating  pity  on  Bessie's  part 
for  the  lamentable  want  of  regulation  of  Fay's 
mind. 

Bessie  liked  Magdalen,  though  she  disapproved  of  her 
manner  of  life  as  weak  and  illogical.  You  could  not 
love  Bessie  any  more  than  you  could  love  an  ironclad. 
She  bore  the  same  resemblance  to  a  woman  that  an 


76  PRISONERS 

iron  building  does  to  a  house.  She  was  not  in  reality 
harder  than  tin  or  granite  or  asphalt,  or  her  father; 
but  it  would  not  be  an  over-statement  to  suggest  that 
she  lacked  softness. 

She  advanced  with  precision  to  the  bench  on  which 
her  sisters  were  sitting. 

"  I  am  now  going  to  cycle  to  the  Carters',"  she 
said  to  Magdalen.  "  I  forgot  to  mention  till  this  mo- 
ment that  I  met  Aunt  Mary  this  morning  at  the  Wind 
Farm,  and  that  she  gave  me  a  letter  for  father,  and 
said  that  she  and  Aunt  Aggie  were  lunching  with  the 
Copes." 

"  Poor  Copes !  "  ejaculated  Fay. 

"  And  would  both  come  on  here  afterwards  to  an 
early  tea,"  continued  Bessie,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
interruption.  "  Aunt  Mary  desired  that  you  would 
not  have  hot  scones  for  tea,  as  Aunt  Aggie  is  always 
depressed  after  them.  She  said  there  was  no  objec- 
tion to  them  cold,  and  buttered,  but  not  hot." 

"  I  shall  have  tea  in  my  own  room  then,"  once  more 
broke  in  Fay.  "  I  can't  stand  Aunt  Mary.  She  is 
always  preaching  at  me." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  Fay  is  disinclined  to  share  the  un- 
doubted burden  of  entertaining  our  relatives,"  said 
Bessie,  addressing  herself  exclusively  to  Magdalen,  "  as 
I  do  not  feel  able  to  defer  my  visit  to  the  Carters  any 
longer." 

Magdalen  struggled  hard  against  a  smile,  and  kept 
it  under. 

"  Possibly  the  aunts  are  coming  over  to  consult 
father  about  a  private  matter,"  she  said.  "  The  letter 
beforehand  to  prepare  his  mind  looks  like  it.  So  it 


PRISONERS  77 

would  be  best  if  you  and  Fay  were  not  there.  The 
aunts'  affairs  generally  require  the  deepest  secrecy." 

"And  then  father  lets  it  all  out  at  dinner  before 
the  servants,"  said  Bessie  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
departed. 

When  she  was  out  of  hearing  Fay  said  with  exasper- 
ation, "  You  are  not  wise  to  give  way  so  much  to 
Bessie,  Magdalen.  She  is  selfishness  itself.  Why  did 
not  you  insist  on  her  staying  and  helping  with  the 
aunts?  She  never  considers  you." 

Magdalen  was  silent. 

"  I  hate  sitting  here  with  the  house  staring  at  me," 
said  Fay.  "  I  can't  think  why  you  are  so  fond  of  this 
bench.  Let  us  go  into  the  beech  avenue." 

For  a  long  time  past  Magdalen  had  noticed  that 
Fay  always  wanted  to  be  somewhere  she  was  not. 

They  went  in  silence  through  the  little  wood  that 
bounded  the  gardens,  and  passed  into  the  great,  bare, 
grey  aisle  of  the  beech  avenue. 

In  a  past  generation  a  wide  drive  had  led  through 
this  avenue  to  the  house.  It  had  been  the  south  ap- 
proach to  Priesthope.  But  in  these  impoverished  days, 
the  road,  with  its  sweep  of  turf  on  either  side,  had  been 
neglected,  and  was  now  little  more  than  a  mossy  cart- 
rut,  with  a  fallen  tree  across  it. 

The  two  sisters  sat  down  on  a  crooked  arm  of  the 
fallen  tree. 

It  was  a  soft,  tranquil  afternoon,  flooded  with  meek 
February  sunshine.  Far  away  between  the  green-grey 
trunks  of  the  trees,  the  sea  glinted  like  a  silver  ribbon. 
Everything  was  very  still,  with  the  stillness  set  deep  in 
peace  of  one  who  loves  and  awaits  in  awe  love's  next 


78  PRISONERS 

word.  The  earth  lay  in  the  sunshine,  and  listened  for  the 
whisper  of  spring.  Faint  birdnotes  threaded  the  high 
windless  spaces  near  the  tree-tops. 

"  Look !  "  said  Magdalen,  "  the  first  crocus." 

What  is  there,  what  can  there  be  in  the  first  yellow 
crocus  peering  against  the  brown  earth,  that  can 
reach  with  instant  healing,  like  a  child's  "  soft  absolv- 
ing touch,"  the  inflamed,  aching,  unrest  of  the  spirit? 
It  does  not  seek  to  comfort  us.  Then  how  does  com- 
fort reach  through  with  the  crocus ;  as  if  the  whole 
under-world  were  peace  and  joy,  and  were  breaking 
through  the  thin  sod  to  enfold  us  ? 

Fay  looked  at  the  flame-pure,  upturned  face  of  the 
little  forerunner,  absently  at  first,  and  then  with  grow- 
ing absorption,  until  two  large  tears  slowly  welled 
up  into  her  eyes  and  blotted  it  out.  She  shivered,  and 
crept  a  little  closer  to  her  sister.  She  felt  alienated 
from  she  knew  not  what,  dreadfully  cold  and  alone  in 
the  sunshine,  with  her  cheek  against  her  sister's  shoul- 
der. Though  she  did  not  realise  it,  something  long 
frost-bound  in  her  mind  was  yielding,  shifting,  break- 
ing up.  The  first  miserable  shudder  of  the  thaw  was 
upon  her. 

She  glanced  up  at  Magdalen,  who  was  looking  into 
the  heart  of  the  crocus,  and  a  sudden  anger  seized  her 
at  the  still  rapture  of  her  sister's  face.  The  contrast 
between  her  own  gnawing  misery  and  Magdalen's  se- 
renity cut  her  like  a  knife.  What  right  had  Magdalen 
to  be  so  happy?  Why  should  she  have  been  exempted 
from  all  trouble?  What  had  she  done  that  anguish 
could  never  reach  her?  Fay's  love  for  Magdalen,  and 
at  this  time  Magdalen  was  the  only  person  for  whom 


PRISONERS  79 

she  had  any  affection — had  all  the  violent  recoils,  the 
mutinous  anger,  the  sudden  desire  to  wound  on  the 
one  side,  all  the  tender  patience  and  grieved  under- 
standing on  the  other  which  are  the  outcome  of  a  real 
attachment  between  a  bond  woman  and  a  free  one. 

The  one  craved,  the  other  relinquished;  the  one  was 
consumed  with  unrest,  the  other  had  reached  some 
inner  stronghold  of  peace.  The  one  was  imprisoned  in 
self,  the  other  was  freed,  released.  The  one  made  de- 
mands, the  other  was  willing  to  serve.  It  seems  as  if 
only  the  free  can  serve. 

"  I  am  very  miserable,"  said  Fay  suddenly.  She  was 
pushed  once  more  by  the  same  blind  impulse  that  had 
taken  her  to  her  husband's  room  the  night  after 
Michael's  arrest. 

She  used  almost  the  same  words.  And  as  the 
duke  had  made  no  answer  then,  so  Magdalen  made 
none  now.  She  had  not  lived  in  the  same  house  with 
Fay  for  nearly  a  year  for  nothing. 

Magdalen's  silence  acted  as  a  goad. 

"  You  think,  and  father  thinks,"  continued  Fay,  her 
voice  shaking,  "  you  are  all  blinder  one  than  the  other, 
that  it's  Andrea  I'm  grieving  for.  It's  not." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Magdalen.  "  You  never  cared 
much  about  him.  I  have  often  wondered  what  it  could 
be  that  was  distressing  you  so  deeply." 

Fay  winced.  Magdalen  had  noticed  something, 
after  all. 

"  I  have  sometimes  feared," — continued  Magdalen 
with  the  deliberation  of  one  who  has  long  since  made 
up  her  mind  not  to  speak  until  the  opening  comes,  and 
not  to  be  silent  when  it  does  come — "  I  have  sometimes 


80  PRISONERS 

feared  that  your  heart  was  locked  up  in  an  Italian 
prison." 

"  My  heart ! "  said  Fay,  and  her  visible  astonish- 
ment at  a  not  very  astonishing  inference  was  not  lost 
on  Magdalen.  "  My  heart ! "  she  laughed  bitterly. 
"  Do  you  really  suppose  after  all  I've  suffered,  all  I've 
gone  through,  that  I'm  so  silly  as  to  be  in  love  with 
anyone  in  prison  or  out  of  it?  I  suppose  you  mean 
poor  dear  Michael.  I  hate  men,  and  their  selfish,  stupid, 
blundering  ways." 

Fay  had  often  alluded  to  the  larger  sex  en  bloc  as 
blunderers  since  the  night  she  had  told  Michael  to 
stand  behind  the  screen. 

"  There  are  two  blunderers  coming  towards  us  now," 
said  Magdalen,  as  the  distant  figures  of  Colonel  Bel- 
lairs  and  Wentworth  appeared  in  the  beech  avenue. 

Both  women  experienced  a  distinct  sense  of  relief. 

Colonel  Bellairs  had  many  qualities  as  a  parent 
which  made  him  a  kind  of  forcing-house  for  the  devel- 
opment of  virtue  in  those  of  his  own  family.  He  was 
as  guano  spread  over  the  roots  of  the  patience  of 
others;  as  a  pruning  hook  to  their  selfishness.  But 
he  had  one  great  compensating  quality  as  a  father. 
He  never  for  one  moment  thought  that  any  man, 
however  young,  visited  the  house  except  for  the 
refreshment  and  solace  of  his  own  society.  He  never 
encouraged  anyone  to  come  with  a  view  to  becoming 
acquainted  with  his  daughters.  His  own  problematic 
re-marriage,  often  discussed  in  all  its  pros  and  cons 
with  Magdalen,  was  the  only  possible  alliance  that  ever 
occupied  his  thoughts.  In  this  respect  he  was  an  ideal 
parent  in  his  daughters'  eyes,  an  inhumanly  selfish  one 


YOU  AllE  ALL  BLINDER  ONE  THAN  THE  OTHER,  THAT  IT  S  ANDREA 
I*M  GRIEVING  FOR  '  ' 


PRISONERS  81 

according  to  his  two  sisters,  Lady  Blore  and  Miss  Bel- 
lairs,  at  this  moment  stepping  out  towards  Priesthope 
from  the  north  lodge. 

Wentworth  had  almost  given  up  hope  of  a  word  with 
Fay  until  he  saw  her  sitting  with  Magdalen  in  the 
avenue.  The  world  would  be  a  much  harder  place  than 
it  already  is  for  women  to  live  in  if  men  concealed 
their  feelings.  A  reverent  and  assiduous  study  of  the 
nobler  sex  leads  the  student  to  believe  that  they  imagine 
they  conceal  them.  But  it  is  women  who  early  in  life 
are  taught  to  acquire  this  art,  at  any  rate  when  they 
are  bored.  Half  the  happy  married  women  of  our 
acquaintance  would  be  the  widows  of  determined  sui- 
cides if  women  allowed  it  to  appear  when  they  were 
bored  as  quickly  as  men  do. 

Wentworth  had  no  idea  that  he  was  not  an  impass- 
able barrier  of  reserve.  He  often  said  of  himself :  "  I 
am  a  very  reserved  man,  I  know.  It  is  a  fault  of  char- 
acter. I  regret  it,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  have  not  the 
art  of  chatting  about  my  deepest  feelings  at  five  o'clock 
tea  as  a  man  must  do  who  lays  himself  out  to  be  popu- 
lar with  women.  What  I  feel  it  is  my  nature  to 
conceal." 

His  reserve  on  this  occasion  was  concentrated  in  his 
face,  which  remained  unmoved.  But  the  lofty  im- 
passiveness  on  which  he  prided  himself  did  not  reach 
down  to  his  legs.  Those  members,  which  had  been 
dragging  themselves  in  a  sort  of  feeble  semi-paralysis 
in  the  wake  of  the  ruthless  Colonel  Bellairs,  now 
straightened  themselves,  and  gave  signs  of  returning 
energy.  Magdalen  from  a  distance  noted  the  change. 
Wentworth  for  the  first  time  was  interested  in  what 


82  PRISONERS 

Colonel  Bellairs  was  saying.  His  own  voice,  which  had 
become  almost  extinct,  revived.  There  was  also  a  hint 
of  spring  in  the  air.  Not  being  a  person  of  much 
self-knowledge,  he  mentioned  that  fact  to  Colonel 
Bellairs. 

Colonel  Bellairs  looked  at  him  with  the  suspicion 
which  appears  to  be  the  one  light  shadow  that  lies 
across  the  sunny  life  of  the  bore. 

"  I  said  so  half  an  hour  ago,"  he  remarked  severely, 
**  when  we  were  inspecting  my  new  manure  tanks,  and 
you  said  you  did  not  notice  it." 

"  You  were  right  all  the  same,"  said  the  younger 
man. 

What  an  interest  would  be  added  to  life  if  it  were 
possible  to  ascertain  how  many  thousands  of  times 
people  like  Colonel  Bellairs  are  limply  assured  that 
they  are  in  the  right!  The  mistake  of  statistics  is 
that  they  are  always  compiled  on  such  dull  subjects. 
Who  cares  to  know  how  many  infants  are  born,  and 
how  many  deaf  mutes  exist?  But  we  should  devour 
statistics,  we  should  read  nothing  else  if  only  they 
dealt  with  matters  of  real  interest:  if  they  recorded 
how  often  Mr.  Simpson,  the  decadent  poet,  had  said 
he  was  "  a  child  of  nature,"  how  often,  if  ever,  the 
Duchess  of  Inveraven  and  Mr.  Brown,  the  junior  curate 
at  Salvage-on-Sea,  had  owned  they  had  been  in  the 
wrong;  whether  it  was  true  that  an  Archbishop  had 
ever  really  said  "  I  am  sorry  "  without  an  "  if  "  after 
it,  and,  if  so,  on  what  occasion;  and  whether  any 
novelist  exists  who  has  not  affirmed  at  least  five  hun- 
dred times  that  criticism  is  a  lost  art. 

"Is   the   right-of-way   dispute   progressing?"    said 


PRISONERS  83 

Magdalen  to  her  father  as  the  two  men  came  up  and 
stopped  in  front  of  them. 

Colonel  Bellairs  implied  that  it  would  shortly  be 
arranged,  as  his  intellect  was  being  applied  to  the 
subject. 

Wentworth  said  emphatically,  for  about  the  thirtieth 
time,  that  the  right  of  a  footpath,  or  church  path 
across  the  domain  was  well  established  and  could  not 
be  set  aside;  but  that  whether  it  was  also  a  bridle 
path  was  the  moot  point;  and  whether  Colonel  Bellairs 
was  justified  in  his  recent  erection  of  a  five-barred 
stile. 

(I  may  as  well  add  here,  for  fear  the  subject  should 
escape  my  mind  later  on,  that  at  the  time  of  these 
pages  going  to  press  the  dispute,  often  on  the  verge 
of  a  settlement,  had  reached  a  further  and  acuter  stage, 
being  complicated  by  Colonel  Bellairs'  sudden  denial 
even  of  a  church  path,  to  the  legal  existence  of  which 
he  had  previously  agreed  in  writing.) 

Wentworth  trod  upon  the  crocus  and  said  he  must 
be  going  home. 

"  We  will  walk  back  to  the  house  with  you,"  said 
Magdalen,  and  she  led  the  way  with  her  father. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  your  Aunt  Mary,"  he  said 
to  Magdalen  as  they  walked  on,  "  that  I  will  not  have 
her  servants  wandering  in  Lindley  wood.  Jones  tells 
me  they  were  there  again  last  Sunday  with  a  dog,  that 
accursed  little  yapping  wool  mat  of  Aunt  Aggie's! 
I  simply  won't  stand  it.  I  would  rather  you  told  her. 
It  would  come  better  from  you." 

"  I  will  tell  her." 

Colonel  Bellairs  was  beginning  late  in  life  to  lean 


84  PRISONERS 

on  Magdalen.  She  was  fond  of  him  in  a  way,  and 
never  yielded  to  him.  On  ne  pent  s'appuyer  que  contre 
ce  qui  resiste.  Though  Colonel  Bellairs  did  not  know 
it,  he  was  always  wanting  to  s'appuyer.  He  had  found 
in  his  daughter  something  solid  to  lean  against,  which 
he  had  never  found  in  his  wife,  who  had  not  resisted  him. 

"  Oh !  and  look  here,  Magdalen.  I  had  a  letter  from 
your  Aunt  Mary  this  morning,  a  long  rigmarole. 
She  says  she  is  following  her  letter,  and  is  coming  to 
have  a  serious  talk  with  me.  Hang  it  all!  Can't  a 
man  have  a  moment's  peace?  " 

Colonel  Bellairs  tore  out  of  an  inner  pocket  a  bulky 
letter  in  a  bold,  upright  hand,  marked  Private,  at  the 
top. 

"  I  wish  to  the  devil  she  would  mind  her  own  busi- 
ness, and  let  me  manage  mine,"  he  said  pettishly,  thrust- 
ing the  letter  at  Magdalen. 

"  I  don't  like  to  read  it,  as  it  is  marked  '  Private.'  " 

"  Read  it.     Read  it,"  said  Colonel  Bellairs  irritably. 

Magdalen  read  the  voluminous  epistle  tranquilly 
from  beginning  to  end  as  she  and  her  father  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  house. 

It  was  an  able  production,  built  up  on  a  solid 
foundation.  It  dealt  with  Colonel  Bellairs'  "  obvious 
duty  "  with  regard  to  the  man  to  whom  Magdalen  had 
been  momentarily  engaged  fifteen  years  before,  and 
who,  owing  to  two  deaths  in  the  Boer  war,  had  unex- 
pectedly succeeded  to  an  earldom. 

"Well!  well!"  said  Colonel  Bellairs  at  intervals, 
more  interested  than  he  wished  to  appear.  "  What  do 
you  think  of  it?  We  noticed  in  the  papers  a  week  ago 
that  he  had  succeeded  his  cousin." 


PRISONERS  85 

"  Wait  a  minute,  father.  I  have  only  come  to  my 
lacerated  affections." 

"  How  slow  you  are !  Your  Aunt  Mary  does  pound 
away.  She  has  a  touch  as  light  as  a  coal-sack.  The 
wonder  to  me  is  how  she  ever  captured  poor  old  Blore." 

"  Perhaps  she  did  it  by  letter.  She  writes  uncom- 
monly well.  '  Magdalen's  joyless  homelife  of  incessant, 
unselfish  service.'  That  is  very  well  put,  isn't  it? 
And  so  is  this :  *  It  is  your  duty  now  to  inform  him 
that  you  withdraw  all  opposition  to  the  renewal  of 
the  engagement,  and  to  invite  him  to  Priesthope.' 
Really,  Aunt  Mary  sticks  at  nothing.  I  warn  you 
solemnly,  father,  this  is  only  the  thin  end  of  the  wedge. 
Unless  you  stand  firm  now,  she'll  want  to  choose  our 
new  stair  carpet  for  us  next.  Really,  I  think  at  her 
age  she  might  take  a  little  holiday,  and  leave  the 
Almighty  in  charge." 

"  Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  ?  "  said  Colonel  Bel- 
lairs,  somewhat  surprised.  "  Do  you  wish  me  to  ask 
him  to  the  house  or  do  you  not?  I  don't  object  to  him. 
I  never  did,  except  as  a  son-in-law,  when  he  had  no 
visible  means  of  subsistence." 

"  And  no  intention  of  making  any." 

"  Just  so.  But  I  always  rather  liked  him,  and,  and 
— time  slips  by  " — (it  had  indeed),  "  and  I  can't  make 
much  provision  for  you,  in  fact,  almost  none,  and  I 
may  marry  again ;  in  fact,  it  is  more  than  likely  I  shall 
shortly  marry  again."  Colonel  Bellairs  was  for  a 
moment  plunged  in  introspection.  "  So  perhaps,  on 
the  whole,  it  would  be  more  generous  on  my  part  to 
ignore  the  past  and  ask  him  to  the  house." 

"  After  forbidding  him  to  come  to  it?  " 


86  PRISONERS 

Colonel  Bellairs  began  to  lose  his  temper. 

"  I  shall  ask  whom  I  think  fit  if  I  choose  to  do  so. 
I  am  master  in  this  house.  If  he  does  not  care  to  come, 
he  can  stay  away." 

"  Ask  him,  in  that  case." 

"  You  agree  that  on  the  whole  that  would  be  best." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  think  it  extremely  undignified  on 
your  part,  and  that  it  is  a  pity  that  you  should  be  so 
swayed  by  Aunt  Mary  as  to  go  by  her  judgment  in- 
stead of  your  own.  You  never  thought  of  asking  him 
till  she  tried  to  coerce  you  into  it." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  be  coerced  by  any  woman,  much 
less  by  that  man  in  petticoats,"  said  Colonel  Bellairs 
wrathfully.  "  But  she  will  be  here  directly.  H'm ! 
What  on  earth  am  I  to  say  to  her  if  I  don't  ask  him? 
.  .  .  She  will  be  here  directly." 

They  had  reached  Colonel  Bellairs'  study  by  now, 
and  he  sat  down  heavily  in  his  old  leather  arm-chair. 
Magdalen  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug  near  him  with 
the  letter  in  her  hand.  She  held  it  over  the  fire,  he 
nodded,  and  she  dropped  it  in. 

"  Perhaps,  Magdalen,"  said  her  father  with  dignity, 
"  it  would  be  just  as  well  if  I  kept  clear  of  the  whole 
affair.  Women  manage  these  little  things  best  among 
themselves.  I  would  rather  not  be  dragged  in.  Any- 
thing on  that  subject,  any  discussion,  or  interchange  of 
opinion  would  come  best  from  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  father." 

Colonel  Bellairs  watched  his  sister's  letter  burn,  with 
the  fixed  eye  of  one  about  to  drop  off  into  an  habitual 
nap. 

The  asphyxiating  atmosphere  of  a  man's  room,  where 


PRISONERS  87 

a  window  is  never  opened  except  to  let  in  a  dog,  or  to 
shout  at  a  gardener,  and  where  years  of  stale  tobacco 
brood  in  every  nook  and  curtain,  enveloped  its  occupant 
with  a  delicious  sense  of  snug  repose,  and  exerted  its 
usual  soporific  charm. 

"  Took  Mary  a  long  time  to  write,"  he  said,  with 
a  sleepy  chuckle,  as  the  last  vestige  disappeared  of 
the  laboriously  constructed  missive  which  Lady  Blore 
had  sat  up  half  the  previous  night,  with  gold-rimmed 
pince-nez  on  Roman  nose  to  copy  out  by  her  bed- 
room candle,  and  had  sent  to  pave  the  way  before  her 
strong  destructive  feet. 

The  footman  came  in. 

"  Lady  Blore  and  Miss  Bellairs  are  in  the  draw- 
ing-room." 

"  Just  pull  the  blinds  half-way  down  before  you 
go,"  said  Colonel  Bellairs  to  Magdalen,  "  and  remem- 
ber other  people  have  got  letters  to  write  as  well  as 
her,  and  I'm  not  to  be  disturbed  on  any  account." 


CHAPTER   IX 

On  garde  longtemps  son  premier  amant  quand  on  n'en 
prend  point  de  second. — LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

THE  two  aunts  meanwhile  were  sitting  waiting  in  the 
drawing-room. 

When  Mrs.  Bellairs  died,  which  event,  according  to 
Aunt  Aggie,  had  been  brought  about  by  a  persistent 
refusal  to  wear  on  her  chest  a  small  square  of  flannel, 
(quite  a  small  square)  sprinkled  with  camphorated  oil, 
and  according  to  Aunt  Mary  by  a  total  misconception 
of  the  Bellairs'  character;  when  this  event  happened, 
the  two  aunts  became  what  they  called  supports  to 
their  brother's  motherless  children. 

They  were  far  from  being  broken  reeds  which  pierce 
the  hands  of  those  who  lean  on  them. 

No  one  had  ever  leaned  on  Aunt  Mary  or  Aunt 
Aggie.  Aunt  Mary  might  perhaps  be  likened  to  one 
of  those  stout  beams  which  have  a  tendency  to  push 
ruthlessly  through  the  tottering  outer  wall  which  they 
are  supposed  to  prop,  into  the  inner  chamber  of  the 
tenement  which  has  the  misfortune  to  be  the  object  of 
their  good  offices. 

She  had  contracted,  not  in  her  first  youth,  a  matri- 
monial alliance — it  could  hardly  be  called  a  marriage 
— with  a  general,  distinguished  in  India  and  obscure 
everywhere  else,  who  had  built  a  villa  called  "  The 
Towers  "  a  few  miles  from  Priesthope.  The  marriage 
had  taken  place  after  years  of  half -gratified  reluctance 

88 


PRISONERS  89 

on  his  part  and  indomitable  crude  persistence  on  hers. 
In  short  it  was  what  is  generally  called  "  a  long  at- 
tachment," and  proves  beyond  dispute,  what  is  already 
proven  to  the  hilt,  that  the  sterner  sex  prefer  to  have 
their  affairs  of  the  heart  arranged  for  them;  that 
once  lost  sight  of  they  are  mislaid,  once  let  loose  on 
parole  they  never  return,  once  captured  they  endeavour 
to  escape ;  that  even  when  finally  married  nothing  short 
of  the  amputation  of  all  external  interests  will  detain 
them  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  THE  HOME. 

Aunt  Mary  had  had  trouble  with  her  general,  but 
though  she  was  no  tactician,  she  was  herself  a  general. 
His  engagement  to  her  had  only  been  the  first  of  the 
crushing  defeats  which  she  had  inflicted  upon  him. 
Now  at  last  at  The  Towers  a  deathlike  peace  reigned. 
Sir  John,  severely  tried  by  rheumatism  and  advancing 
years,  had,  so  to  speak,  given  up  his  sword. 

His  wife's  magnanimity  had  provided  him  with 
what  she  considered  suitable  amusements  and  occupa- 
tions. He  was  told  that  he  took  an  interest  in  breed- 
ing pigs,  and  he,  who  had  once  ruled  a  province  rather 
larger  than  England,  might  now  be  seen  on  fine  morn- 
ings tottering  out,  tilted  forward  on  his  stick,  making 
the  tour  of  the  farmyard,  and  hanging  over  the  low 
wall  of  his  model  pigstyes. 

In  Magdalen's  recollections,  Aunt  Mary  had  always 
looked  exactly  the  same,  the  same  strong,  tall,  robust, 
large-featured,  handsome  woman,  with  black  hair,  and 
round,  black,  unwinking  eyes,  who  invariably  dressed 
in  black  and  wore  a  bonnet.  Even  under  the  cedar  at 
The  Towers  Aunt  Mary  wore  a  bonnet.  When  she 
employed  herself  in  a  majestic  gardening  the  sun 


90  PRISONERS 

was  shaded  from  her  Roman  nose  by  a  black  satin 
parasol. 

There  are  some  men  and  women  whom  it  is  monstrous 
to  suppose  ever  were  children,  ever  young,  ever  dif- 
ferent from  what  they  are  now.  Whatever  laws  of 
human  nature  may  rule  the  birth  of  others,  they,  at 
any  rate,  like  the  phoenix,  sprang  full  grown,  middle 
aged,  in  a  frock  coat,  or  a  bugled  silk  gown,  from 
some  charred  heap  of  unconsenting  parental  ashes. 

Aunt  Mary  was  no  doubt  one  of  these. 

Near  her,  on  the  edge  of  her  chair,  perhaps  not 
so  entirely  on  the  edge  of  it  as  at  first  appeared,  sat 
Aunt  Aggie.  Aunt  Aggie  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
coloured  by  some  mistake  from  a  palette  prepared  to 
depict  a  London  fog. 

Her  eyes  were  greyish  yellow,  like  her  eyelashes,  like 
her  hair, — at  least  her  front  hair, — like  her  eyebrows, 
and  her  complexion.  She  was  short  and  stout.  She 
called  slender  people  skeletons.  Her  gown,  which  was 
invariably  of  some  greyish,  drabbish,  neutral-tinted 
material,  always  cocked  up  a  little  in  front  to  show 
two  large,  flat,  soft-looking  feet. 

Aunt  Aggie  began  quite  narrow  at  the  top.  Her  fore- 
head was  the  thin  edge  of  the  wedge,  and  she  widened 
slowly  as  she  neared  the  ground ;  the  first  indication  of 
a  settlement  showing  in  the  lobes  of  her  ears,  then  in 
her  cheeks,  and  then  in  her  drab-apparelled  person. 
Her  whole  aspect  gave  the  impression  of  a  great  self- 
importance,  early  realised  and  made  part  of  life,  but 
kept  in  abeyance  by  the  society  of  Aunt  Mary  and 
by  a  religious  conviction  that  others  also  had  their 
place,  a  sort  of  back  seat,  in  the  Divine  consciousness. 


PRISONERS  91 

It  would  not  be  fair  to  Aunt  Aggie  to  omit  to  men- 
tion, especially  as  she  continually  made  veiled  allusions 
to  the  subject  herself,  that  she  also  had  known  the 
tender  passion.  There  had  been  an  entanglement  in 
her  youth  with  a  High  Church  archdeacon.  But  we 
all  know  how  indefinite,  how  inconclusive,  how  meagre 
in  practical  results  archidiaconal  conferences  are  apt 
to  be!  After  one  of  them  it  was  discovered  that  the 
entanglement  was  all  on  Aunt  Aggie's  side.  The  arch- 
deacon remained  unenmeshed.  Under  severe  pressure 
from  Lady  Blore,  then  an  indomitable  bride  of  forty, 
flushed  by  recent  victory,  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  say 
that  his  only  bride  was  the  Church.  It  was  after  this 
disheartening  statement  that  Aunt  Aggie  found  her- 
self drawn  towards  an  evangelical  and  purer  form  of 
religion.  The  Archdeacon  subsequently  married,  or 
rather  became  guilty  of  ecclesiastical  bigamy.  But 
Aunt  Aggie  throughout  life  retained  pessimistic  views 
respecting  the  celibacy  of  the  clergy. 

Aunt  Mary  bestowed  a  strong  businesslike  peck, 
emphasized  by  contact  with  the  point  of  a  stone-cold 
nose,  on  Magdalen's  cheek.  Aunt  Aggie  greeted  her 
niece  with  small  inarticulate  duckings  of  affection. 
Have  you  ever  kissed  a  tepid  poached  egg?  Then  you 
know  what  it  is  to  salute  Aunt  Aggie's  cheek. 

"  Where  are  Fay  and  Bessie?  "  enquired  Aunt  Mary 
instantly.  When  the  aunts  announced  their  coming, 
which  was  invariably  at  an  hour's  notice,  they  always 
expected  to  find  the  whole  family,  including  Colonel 
Bellairs,  waiting  indoors  to  receive  them.  This  ex- 
pectation was  never  realised,  but  the  annoyance  that 


92  PRISONERS 

invariably  followed  had  retained  through  many  years 
the  dew  of  its  youth. 

"  Bessie  and  Fay  are  out.  I  am  expecting  them  back 
every  moment." 

"  They  will  probably  be  later  than  usual  to-day," 
said  Aunt  Mary  grimly,  with  the  half-conscious  intu- 
ition of  those  whom  others  avoid.  Did  she  know 
that  with  the  exception  of  Sir  John,  whose  vanity 
had  led  him  to  take  refuge  in  a  cul-de-sac,  her  fellow 
creatures  rushed  out  by  back  doors,  threw  themselves 
out  of  windows,  hid  behind  haystacks,  had  letters  to 
write,  were  ordered  by  their  doctors  to  rest,  whenever 
she  appeared?  Did  she  know?  One  thing  was  certain. 
Magdalen  was  one  of  the  very  few  persons  who  had 
never  avoided  her,  who  at  times  openly  sought  her 
society.  And  Aunt  Mary,  though  she  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  own  it,  loved  Magdalen.  She  intended  that 
Magdalen  should  live  with  her  some  day  at  the  Towers, 
as  an  unpaid  companion,  when  Sir  John  and  Aunt  Ag- 
gie had  entered  into  peace. 

"  And  your  father,"  continued  Aunt  Mary.  "  Did 
he  get  my  letter?  I  intend  to  have  a  serious  conver- 
sation with  him  after  tea." 

"  Father  has  this  moment  come  in,  and  he  asked  me 
to  tell  you  that  he  had  business  letters  which  he  is 
obliged  to  write." 

"  I  know  what  that  means." 

"  Oh !  Mary !  "  interpolated  Aunt  Aggie  eagerly. 
'*  You  forget  that  Algernon  always,  from  the  time  he 
was  a  young  man,  left  his  letters  to  the  last  moment. 
All  the  Bellairs  do." 

The  Bellairs  had  other  unique  family  characteristics, 


PRISONERS  93 

as  peculiar  to  themselves  as  their  choice  of  time  for 
grappling  with  their  correspondence,  which  Aunt 
Aggie  was  never  tired  of  quoting.  "  Bellairs  are 
always  late  for  breakfast.  It  is  no  kind  of  use  finding 
fault  with  Bessie  about  it.  I  was  just  the  same  at  her 
age." 

Aunt  Aggie  went  through  life  under  the  belief  that 
she  was  a  peacemaker,  which  delicate  task  she  fulfilled 
by  making  in  an  impassioned  manner  small  statements 
which  seldom  contained  a  new  or  healing  view  of  exist- 
ing difficulties.  She  often  spoke  of  herself  as  a 
"  buffer  "  between  contending  forces.  Sir  John  Blore 
had  been  known  to  remark  that  he  could  not  fathom 
what  Aggie  meant  by  that  expression,  as  it  certainly 
was  not  appropriate  to  the  domestic  circle  at  The 
Towers,  consisting,  as  it  did,  of  one  rheumatic  Anglo- 
Indian  worm,  and  one  able-bodied  blackbird. 

"  I  intend  to  see  your  father  after  tea,"  repeated 
Aunt  Mary,  taking  no  notice  of  her  sister's  remark. 

"  Father  is  much  worried  about  the  right  of  way," 
continued  Magdalen.  "  He  showed  me  your  most  kind 
letter  about  myself,  and " 

"  Showed  it  to  you!  '*  said  Aunt  Mary,  becoming 
purple.  "  It  was  not  intended  for  any  eye  except  your 
father's." 

"  Confidence  between  a  father  and  his  child,"  began 
Aunt  Aggie,  clasping  her  stout  little  hands,  and  look- 
ing eagerly  from  her  sister  to  her  niece. 

Magdalen  went  on  tranquilly.  "  It  only  told  me 
what  I  knew  before,  Aunt  Mary,  that  you  have  my 
welfare  at  heart.  Father  said  that  he  thought  it  would 
be  best  if  you  and  I  talked  the  matter  over.  I  agreed 


94  PRISONERS 

with  him.  It  would  be  easier  for  me  to  discuss  it  with 
you.  It  would  not  be  for  the  first  time." 

It  would  not  indeed! 

"  Aggie,"  said  Aunt  Mary  instantly,  "  you  expressed 
a  wish  on  your  way  here  to  see  Bessie's  fossils.  You 
will  go  to  the  schoolroom  and  investigate  them."- 

"  I  think  they  are  kept  locked,"  said  Aunt  Aggie 
faintly.  She  longed  to  stay.  She  had  guessed  the  sub- 
ject of  the  letter.  She  took  in  a  love  affair  the 
fevered  interest  with  which  the  unmarried  approach 
the  subject. 

"  They  are  unlocked,"  said  Aunt  Mary  with  decision. 

Aunt  Aggie  swallowed  the  remains  of  her  tea,  and 
holding  a  little  bitten  bun  in  her  hand  slid  out  of  the 
room.  She  never  openly  opposed  her  sister,  with  whom 
she  lived  part  of  the  year  when  she  let  her  cottage  at 
Saundersfoot  to  relations  in  need  of  sea  air. 

An  unmistakable  aspect  of  concentration  deepened 
in  Aunt  Mary's  fine  countenance. 

"  Magdalen,"  she  said  at  once,  "  in  the  presence  of 
that  weak  sentimentalist  my  lips  are  closed.  But  now 
that  we  are  alone,  and  as  it  is  your  wish  to  reopen  the 
subject,  it  is  my  duty  to  inform  myself  whether  any- 
thing has  transpired  about  Everard  Constable — Lord 
Lossiemouth,  as  I  suppose  he  now  is." 

"  Nothing,"  said  Magdalen  with  a  calmness  that  was 
almost  cheerful.  If  she  was  as  sensitive  as  she  looked 
she  had  a  marvellous  power  of  concealing  it.  She 
never  shrank.  She  was  apparently  never  wounded. 
She  seldom  showed  that  any  subject  jarred  on  her.  It 
is  affirmed  that  animals  develop  certain  organs  to  meet 
the  exigencies  of  their  environment.  A  sole's  eye  (or 


PRISONERS  95 

is  it  a  sand-dab's?)  travels  up  round  its  head  regard- 
less of  appearances  when  it  finds  it  is  more  wanted  there 
than  on  the  lower  side.  We  often  see  a  similar  dis- 
tortion in  the  mental  features  of  the  wives  of  literary 
men.  So  perhaps  also  Magdalen  had  adapted  herself 
to  the  Bellairs'  environment,  with  which  it  was  obvious 
that  she  had  almost  nothing  in  common  except  her 
name. 

Aunt  Mary  loved  Magdalen  in  a  way,  yet  she  never 
spared  her  the  discussion  of  that  long-ago  attachment 
of  her  youth,  violently  mismanaged  by  Colonel  Bel- 
lairs.  The  rose  of  Aunt  Mary's  real  affection  had  a 
little  scent,  but  it  was  set  round  with  thorns. 

"  He  has  behaved  disgracefully,"  she  said,  looking 
with  anger  and  disappointment  at  her  niece's  faded 
face. 

"  We  have  discussed  that  before,"  said  Magdalen 
tranquilly.  "  I,  as  you  know,  do  not  blame  him.  But 
it  is  all  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  better  forgotten." 

"  He  was  poor  then.  No  one  ever  thought  he  would 
succeed  with  two  lives  between.  But  it  is  different 
now  that  he  is  wealthy  and  in  a  position  to  marry." 

*'  He  has  never  been  in  a  position  to  marry  me,"  said 
Magdalen,  "  because  he  never  cared  enough  for  me  to 
make  an  effort  on  my  behalf.  That  was  not  his  fault. 
He  mistook  a  romantic  admiration  for  love,  and 
naturally  found  it  would  not  work.  How  could  it? 
It  was  not  necessary  to  turn  heaven  and  earth  to  gain 
me.  But  it  was  necessary  to  turn  a  few  small  stones. 
He  could  not  turn  them." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  he  asked  you,  and  you  accepted 
him." 


96  PRISONERS 

"  A  hundred  years  ago." 

"  And  you  have  waited  for  him  ever  since." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  am  not  waiting  for  him  or  for  any- 
one." 

"  You  would  have  married  Mr.  Grenf  ell  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Everard." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  have  married  Everard  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Everard,"  said  Magdalen. 

It  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  shake  her  dispassionate 
view  of  the  matter. 

"Your  feelings  were  certainly  engaged,  Magdalen. 
There  is  no  use  in  denying  that." 

"  Have  I  ever  denied  it  ?  " 

Aunt  Mary  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  her  under 
lip  was  ominously  thrust  out.  She  was  not  thinking 
of  what  Magdalen  had  said.  If  she  had  ever  listened 
to  the  remarks  of  others  when  they  differed  from  her, 
she  would  not  have  become  Lady  Blore.  She  was  only 
silent  because  she  was  rallying  her  forces. 

"  A  woman's  hands  become  talons  when  they  try  to 
hold  on  to  a  man  when  he  wants  to  get  away,"  said 
Magdalen  gently. 

Aunt  Mary  turned  on  her  niece  an  opaque  eye  that 
saw  nothing  beyond  the  owner's  views. 

"  Something  ought  to  be  done,"  she  said  with  em- 
phasis. "  After  all,  your  father  dismissed  him.  I 
shall  advise  your  father  to  write  to  him,  and  if  he  does 
not — I  shall  write  to  him  myself." 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  do  that,"  said  Magdalen.  "  Do 
you  remember  what  a  subject  for  gossip  it  was  at  the 
time?  When  father  became  angry  with  Everard  he 
told  everyone,  and  it  became  a  sort  of  loud  turmoil. 


PRISONERS  97 

The  servants  knew,  the  parish  knew,  the  whole  county 
knew  that  I  had  had  a  disappointment.  I  have  re- 
mained ever  since  in  the  eyes  of  the  neighbours  a  sort  of 
blighted  creature,  a  victim  of  the  heartlessness  of  man. 
A  new  edition  of  that  old  story  now  that  my  hair  is 
grey  would  be,  I  think,  a  little  out  of  place.  I  had 
hoped " 

The  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  Bessie 
marched  into  the  room  with  Aunt  Aggie  hanging  nerv- 
ously at  her  heels. 

"  I  came  back  as  quickly  as  I  could  from  the  Carters' 
in  order  not  to  miss  you,"  said  Bessie  to  Aunt  Mary 
in  her  stentorian  voice,  and  she  presented  a  glowing 
rose  cheek  to  be  kissed. 

Magdalen  shot  a  grateful  glance  at  her  sister,  and 
the  conversation  became  general. 

After  the  aunts  had  departed,  Bessie  said  to  Mag- 
dalen on  their  way  upstairs  to  dress,  "  I  found  when  I 
reached  the  Carters'  that  they  had  gone  out  with  Pro- 
fessor Ridgway  to  see  the  Roman  camp.  Only  old 
Mrs.  Carter  was  at  home,  and  she  was  rather  chilly, 
and  said  they  had  expected  me  to  luncheon.  They  had 
had  a  little  party  to  meet  the  Professor.  I  saw  that 
my  conduct  called  for  an  apology.  I  made  one." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  I  see  now  that  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have 
gone  over  for  luncheon  as  arranged.  I  also  thought 
how  selfish  it  was  of  Fay  not  to  help  you  with  the 
aunts.  And  then  I  perceived  that  there  were  not  two 
pins  to  choose  between  us,  as  I  had  been  just  as  bad 
myself,  so  I  hurried  back  as  quickly  as  I  could." 

"  I  was  most  grateful  to  you  when  I  saw  you  come 


98  PRISONERS 

in.  And  Aunt  Mary  was  pleased  too.  She  never 
shows  it  much;  but  she  was." 

"  It  is  of  secondary  importance  whether  she  was 
pleased  or  not.  My  object  in  returning  was  twofold: 
to  help  you,  and  also  for  the  sake  of  my  own  character. 
I  begin  to  see  that  unless  I  am  careful  I  shall  become  as 
selfish  as  father." 

Magdalen  did  not  answer. 

"  The  aunts  never  do  things  like  other  people,"  con- 
tinued Bessie.  "  I  found  Aunt  Aggie  standing,  eating 
a  bun,  just  outside  the  drawing-room  door.  She  was 
quite  flurried  when  I  came  up,  and  said  she  wanted  to 
see  my  fossils,  but  would  rather  look  at  them  another 
day." 


CHAPTER    X 

La  vie  est  un  instrument  dont  on  commence  tou jours  par 
jouer  faux. 

WENTWORTH  and  Fay  did  not  follow  Colonel  Bellairs 
and  Magdalen  back  to  the  house.  When  they  reached 
the  end  of  the  avenue  they  turned  back  silently  by  mu- 
tual consent,  and  retraced  their  steps  down  it. 

Presently  they  reached  the  trunk  of  the  tree  where 
Fay  had  been  sitting  with  Magdalen. 

Fay  sank  down  upon  it  once  more,  white  and  ex- 
hausted. He  sat  down  at  a  little  distance  from  her. 

"How  is  Michael?"  she  said  at  last,  twisting  her 
ungloved  hands  together. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  about  him ;  I  only  got  back  last 
night.  I  knew  you  would  wish  to  hear." 

"How  is  he?" 

"  He  has  been  ill.  He  has  had  double  pneumonia. 
It  started  with  haemorrhage,  and  some  of  the  blood  got 
into  the  lungs,  and  caused  pneumonia.  He  is  better 
now,  nearly  well,  in  fact.  The  prison  doctor  seemed  a 
sensible  man,  and  he  spoke  as  if  he  were  interested  in 
Michael.  From  what  he  said  I  gathered  that  he  did 
not  think  Michael  would  survive  another  winter  there. 
The  prison*  stands  in  a  sort  of  marsh.  It  is  a  very 
good  place  to  prevent  prisoners  escaping,  but  not  a 
good  place  for  them  to  keep  alive  in.  The  doctor  is 

*  The  prison  described  has  no  counterpart  in  real  life. 
99 


100  PRISONERS 

pressing  to  have  Michael  moved.  He  thinks  he  might 
do  better  at  the  '  colonia  agricola,'  where  the  labour  is 
more  agricultural ;  or  that  even  work  in  the  iron  mines 
of  Portoferriao  would  try  his  constitution  less  than  the 
swamp  where  he  now  is." 

"Was  he  still  in  chains?" 

"  No.  And  the  doctor  said  there  was  some  talk  of 
abolishing  them  altogether.  If  not,  he  will  be  obliged 
to  go  back  to  them  now  he  is  better.  He  is  looking  for- 
ward to  the  sea  lavender  coming  out.  He  says  the 
place  is  beautiful  beyond  words  when  it  is  in  flower: 
whole  tracts  and  tracts  of  grey  lilac  blossom  in  the 
shallows,  and  hordes  of  wild  birds.  He  asked  me  to 
tell  you  that  you  were  to  think  of  him  as  living  in 
fairyland." 

Fay  winced  as  If  struck. 

"  You  gave  him  my  message  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"  Of  course  I  did.  And  he  said  I  was  to  tell  you  not 
to  grieve  for  him,  for  he  was  well  and  happy." 

"  Happy !  "  echoed  Fay. 

"  Yes,  happy.  He  said  he  had  committed  a  great 
sin,  but  that  he  hoped  and  believed  that  he  was  now 
expiating  it,  and  that  it  would  be  forgiven." 

"  I  am  absolutely  certain,"  said  Fay  in  a  suffocated 
voice,  "  that  Michael  did  not  murder  the  Marchese  di 
Maltagliala." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Wentworth. 

"  Then  what  great  sin  can  he  be  expiating  ?  " 

Even  as  Fay  asked  the  question  she  knew  the  answer. 
Michael  believed  he  was  expiating  the  sin  of  loving 
another  man's  wife.  In  his  mind  that  was  probably  on 
a  par  with  the  murder  he  had  not  committed. 


PRISONERS  101 

"  I  asked  him  that,"  said  Wentworth,  "  but  he  would 
not  say.  He  would  only  repeat  that  his  punishment 
was  just." 

Two  large  tears  ran  down  Fay's  cheeks. 

"  It  is  unjust,  unjust,  unjust !  "  she  gasped.  "  Why 
does  God  allow  these  dreadful  things  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

For  a  time  Wentworth  had  forgotten  Fay.  He  saw 
again  the  great  yellow  building  standing  in  a  waste 
of  waters.  He  saw  again  the  thin,  prematurely  aged 
face  of  his  brother,  the  shaved  head,  the  coarse,  striped 
convict  dress,  the  arid  light  from  the  narrow  barred 
window.  He  saw  again  Michael's  grave  smile,  and 
heard  the  tranquil  voice,  "  This  place  is  beautiful  in 
autumn.  Mind  you  come  next  when  the  sea  lavender  is 
out." 

The  remembrance  of  that  meeting  cut  sharper  than 
the  actual  pain  of  it  at  the  moment.  He  had  gone 
through  with  it  with  a  sort  of  stolid  endurance,  letting 
Michael  see  but  a  tithe  of  what  he  felt.  But  the  re- 
membrance was  anguish  unalloyed.  For  a  time  he  could 
neither  speak  nor  see. 

A  yellow  butterfly  that  had  waked  too  soon  floated 
towards  them  on  a  wavering  trial  trip.  Close  at  hand 
a  snowdrop  drooped  "  its  serious  head."  The  butter- 
fly knew  its  own,  and  lit  on  the  meek,  nunlike  flower, 
opening  and  shutting  its  new  wings  in  the  pallid  sun- 
shine. It  had  perhaps  dreamed,  as  it  lay  in  its  chrys- 
alis, "  that  life  had  been  more  sweet."  Was  this  chill 
sunshine  that  could  not  quicken  his  wings,  was  this 
grim  desert  that  held  no  goal  for  butterfly  feet,  was 
this  one  snowdrop — all?  Was  this  indeed  the  summer 


102  PRISONERS 

of  his  dreams,  in  the  sure  and  certain  hope  of  which 
he  had  spun  his  cocoon,  and  laid  him  down  in  faith? 

Fay  looked  at  it  in  anguish  not  less  than  Went- 
worth's,  whose  dimmed  eyes  saw  it  not  at  all.  She 
never  watched  a  poised  butterfly  open  and  shut  its 
wings  without  thinking  of  Michael.  The  flight  of  a 
seagull  across  the  down  cut  her  like  a  lash.  He  had 
been  free  once.  He  who  so  loved  the  down,  the  sea,  the 
floating  cloud,  had  been  free  once. 

When  Wentworth  had  winked  his  steady  grey  eyes 
back  to  their  normal  state,  he  looked  furtively  at  Fay. 
She  was  weeping  silently.  He  had  seen  Fay  in  tears 
before,  but  never  without  emotion.  With  a  somewhat 
halting  utterance  he  told  her  of  certain  small  allevia- 
tions of  Michael's  lot.  The  permission,  urgently 
asked,  had  at  last  been  granted  that  English  books 
might  be  sent  him  from  time  to  time.  The  lonely, 
aching  smart  of  Wentworth's  morning  hours  was 
vaguely  soothed  and  comforted  by  Fay's  gentle 
presence. 

She  appeared  to  listen  to  him,  but  in  reality  she 
heard  nothing.  She  sat  looking  straight  in  front  of 
her,  a  tear  slipping  from  time  to  time  down  her  white 
cheek.  Except  on  one  or  two  occasions  Fay  had  that 
rarest  charm  of  looking  beautiful  in  tears.  She  be- 
came paler  than  ever,  never  red  and  disfigured  and 
convulsed,  with  the  prosaic  cold  in  the  head  that 
accompanies  the  emotions  of  less  fortunate  women. 

"How  old  is  Michael?"  she  asked  suddenly  in  the 
midst  of  a  painstaking  account  of  certain  leniencies 
as  to  diet,  certain  macaronis  and  soups  which  the 
doctor  had  insisted  on  for  Michael. 


PRISONERS  103 

'*  He  is  twenty-seven." 

"And  how  long  has  he  been  in  prison?" 

"  Nearly  two  years." 

"  And  he  has  thirteen  more,"  said  Fay,  looking  at 
Wentworth  with  wide  eyes  blank  with  horror. 

"  No,"  said  Wentworth,  his  voice  shaking  a  little. 
"  No,  Michael  will  not  live  long  in  that  swamp,  not 
many  years,  I  think." 

"  But  they  will  move  him  to  a  better  climate." 

"  He  does  not  want  to  be  moved.  I  should  not, 
either,  in  his  case." 

Fay's  hands  fell  to  her  sides. 

"  When  my  mother  died,"  said  Wentworth,  "  I  prom- 
ised her  to  be  good  to  Michael.  There  was  no  need  for 
me  to  promise  to  be  good  to  him.  I  always  liked  him 
better  than  anyone  else.  I  taught  him  to  ride  and  to 
shoot.  He  got  his  gun  up  sharp  from  the  first.  It's 
easy  to  do  things  for  anyone  you  like.  But  what  is 
hard  is  when  the  time  comes  " — Wentworth  stopped, 
and  then  went  on — "  when  the  time  comes  that  you  can't 
do  anything  more  for  the  person  you  care  for  most." 

Silence. 

The  yellow  butterfly  was  still  feebly  trying  to  open 
and  shut  his  wings.  The  low  sun  had  abandoned  him 
to  the  encroaching  frost,  and  was  touching  the  bare 
overarching  branches  to  palest  gold,  "  so  subtly  fair, 
so  gorgeous  dim  " ;  so  far  beyond  the  reach  of  tiny 
wings. 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  Wentworth,  "  I  would  stick 
at  anything.  I  don't  know  of  anything  I  would  not 
do,  anything  I  would  not  give  up,  to  get  him  back  his 
freedom.  But  it's  no  use,  I  can  do  nothing  for  him." 


104  PRISONERS 

"  Oh !  Why  does  not  the  real  murderer  confess  ?  " 
said  Fay  with  a  sob,  wringing  her  hands.  "  How  can 
he  go  on,  year  after  year,  letting  an  innocent  man 
wear  out  his  life  in  prison,  bearing  the  punishment  of 
his  horrible  crime?  " 

That  mysterious  murderer  occupied  a  large  place  in 
Fay's  thoughts.  She  hated  him  with  a  deadly  hatred. 
He  was  responsible  for  everything.  That  one  crooked 
channel  of  thought  that  persistently  turned  aside  all 
blame  onto  an  unknown  offender,  had  at  last  given  a 
certain  crookedness,  a  sort  of  twist,  to  the  whole  sub- 
ject in  Fay's  mind. 

*'  I  begged  Michael  again  for  the  twentieth  time  to 
tell  me  anything  that  could  act  as  a  clue  to  discovering 
the  real  criminal,"  said  Wentworth.  "  I  told  him  I 
would  spend  my  last  shilling  in  bringing  him  to  jus- 
tice, but  he  only  shook  his  head.  I  told  him  that  some 
of  his  friends  felt  certain  that  he  knew  who  the  mur- 
derer was,  and  was  shielding  him.  He  shook  his  head 
again.  He  would  not  tell  me  anything  the  first  day  I 
went  to  him  after  he  was  arrested.  And  still,  after 
two  years  in  prison,  he  will  not  speak.  Michael  will 
never  say  anything." 

The  despair  in  Wentworth's  voice  met  the  advancing 
chill  of  the  waning  afternoon.  The  sun  had  gone. 
The  gold  had  faded  into  grey.  A  frosty  breath  was 
stirring  the  dead  leaves.  The  butterfly  had  closed  his 
wings  for  the  last  time,  and  clung  feebly,  half  reversed, 
to  his  snowdrop.  A  tiny  trembling  had  laid  hold  upon 
him.  He  was  tasting  death. 

Fay  shivered  involuntarily,  and  drew  her  fur  cloak 
around  her. 


PRISONERS  105 

"  I  must  go  in,"  she  said. 

They  walked  slowly  to  the  wooden,  ivied  gate  which 
separated  the  woods  from  the  gardens.  A  thin,  white 
moon  was  already  up,  peering  at  them  above  the  gath- 
ering sea  mist. 

They  stood  a  moment  together  by  the  gate,  each 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  consolation  of  the  other's 
presence  in  the  face  of  the  great  grief  which  had  drawn 
them  together. 

"  I  will  come  again  soon,  if  I  may,"  he  said  diffi- 
dently, "  unless  seeing  me  reminds  you  of  painful 
things."  His  voice  had  lowered  itself  involuntarily. 

"  I  like  to  see  you,"  said  Fay  in  a  whisper,  and  she 
sh'pped  away  from  him  like  a  shadow  among  the 
shadows. 

The  entire  dejection  of  her  voice  and  manner  sheared 
from  her  words  any  possible  reassurance  which  Went- 
worth  might  otherwise  have  found  in  them,  which  he 
suddenly  felt  anxious  to  find  in  them. 

He  pondered  over  them  as  he  rode  home. 

How  she  had  loved  her  husband !  People  had  hinted 
that  they  had  not  been  a  happily  assorted  couple,  but 
it  was  obvious  that  her  grief  at  his  loss  was  still  over- 
whelming. And  what  courageous  affection  she  had 
shown  towards  Michael,  whom  she  had  known  from  a 
boy;  first  in  trying  to  shield  him  when  he  had  taken 
refuge  in  her  room,  and  afterwards  in  her  sorrowing 
compassion  for  his  fate.  And  what  a  steadfast  belief 
she  had  shown  from  first  to  last  in  his  innocence,  against 
overwhelming  odds ! 

Wentworth  did  not  know  till  he  met  Fay  that  such 
women  existed.  Women  he  was  aware  were  an  enigma. 


106  PRISONERS 

Men  could  not  fathom  them.  They  were  fickle,  mys- 
terious creatures,  on  whom  no  sane  man  could  rely, 
whom  the  wisest  owned  they  could  not  understand, 
capable  alternately  of  devotion  and  treachery,  acting 
from  instincts  that  men  did  not  share,  moved  by  sudden, 
amazing  impulses  that  men  could  not  follow. 

But  could  a  woman  like  Fay,  who  towered  head  and 
shoulders  above  the  ordinary  run  of  women,  removed 
to  a  height  apart  from  their  low  level  of  pettiness  and 
vanity,  by  her  simplicity  and  nobility  and  capacity  for 
devotion — could  such  a  woman  love  a  second  time? 

The  thirst  to  be  loved,  to  be  the  object  of  an  exquis- 
ite tenderness,  what  man  has  not,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously longed  for  that?  What  woman  has  not  had 
her  dream  of  giving  that  and  more,  full  measure,  run- 
ning over? 

To  find  favour  in  a  woman's  eyes  a  man  need  only 
do  his  stupid  bungling  best.  But  it  is  doubtful 
whether  Wentworth  had  a  best  of  any  kind  in  him 
to  do. 

At  twenty-five  he  would  not  have  risked  as  much  for 
love  as  even  cautious  men  of  robuster  fibre  will  still 
ruefully  but  determinedly  risk  in  the  forties.  And  now 
at  forty  he  would  risk  almost  nothing. 

Where  Michael  was  concerned  Wentworth's  love  had 
reached  the  strength  where  it  could  act,  indefatigably, 
if  need  be.  Michael  had  been  so  far  the  only  creature 
who  could  move  his  brother's  egotism  beyond  the  re- 
finements of  bedridden  sentiment. 

It  was  as  well  for  Fay  that  she  did  not  realise,  and 
absolutely  essential  for  Wentworth  that  he  did  not 
realise  either,  that  in  spite  of  an  undoubted  natural 


PRISONERS  107 

attraction  towards  her  he  would  have  seen  no  more  of 
her  unless  she  had  come  within  easy  reach. 

A  common  trouble  had  drawn  them  towards  each 
other.  A  common  interest,  a  common  joy  or  sorrow, 
a  house  within  easy  distance — these  are  some  of  the 
match  makers  between  the  invalids  of  life,  who  are  not 
strong  enough  to  want  anything  very  much,  or  to  work 
for  what  they  want.  For  them  favourable  circum- 
stance is  everything. 

Wentworth  could  ride  four  and  a  half  miles  down  a 
picturesque  lane  to  see  Fay.  But  he  could  not  have 
taken  a  journey  by  rail. 

A  few  years  before  Wentworth  met  Fay  he  had  been 
tepidly  interested  in  the  youthful  sister  of  one  of  his 
college  friends  and  contemporaries,  an  Oxford  Don 
at  whose  house  he  stayed  every  year.  The  sister  kept 
house  for  her  brother.  It  was  the  usual  easy  com- 
monplace combination  of  circumstaances  that  has  towed 
lazy  men  into  marriage  since  the  institution  was  first 
formed.  He  saw  her  without  any  effort  on  his  part. 
He  arrived  at  a  kind  of  knowledge  of  her.  He  found 
her  to  be  what  he  liked.  She  was  sympathetic,  refined, 
shy,  cultivated,  unselfish,  and  of  a  wild  rose  prettiness. 
After  a  time  he  kept  up,  mainly  on  her  account,  a  reg- 
ular intercourse  with  the  brother,  who  was  becoming 
rather  prosy,  as  was  Wentworth  himself.  Presently 
the  brother  married,  and  the  sister  ceased  to  live  with 
him. 

Wentworth's  visits  to  Oxford  gradually  ceased  to 
give  him  pleasure.  He  found  his  friend's  wife  middle- 
class,  self-absorbed,  and  artificial,  the  friend  himself 
donnish,  cut  and  dried,  and  liable  to  anecdotic  seizures 


108  PRISONERS 

of  increasing  frequency.  The  intimacy  dwindled  and 
was  now  moribund.  But  it  never  entered  his  mind  to 
enquire  into  the  whereabouts  of  the  sister,  and  to  con- 
tinue his  acquaintance  with  her  independently.  If  he 
had  continued  to  meet  her  regularly  he  would  almost 
certainly  have  married  her.  She  on  her  side  seemed 
well  disposed  towards  him.  As  it  was  he  never  saw  her 
again.  He  gradually  ceased  to  think  of  her,  except  on 
summer  evenings,  as  a  charming  possibility  which  Fate 
had  sternly  removed,  as  one  lost  to  him  for  ever.  He 
wrote  a  little  poem  about  her,  beginning,  "  Where  are 
you  now?"  (She  was  at  Kensington  all  the  time.) 
Wentworth  never  published  his  verses.  He  said  there 
was  no  room  for  a  new  poet  who  did  not  advertise  him- 
self. There  had  been  room  for  one  of  his  college 
friends,  but  that  had  been  a  case  of  log  rolling. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  a  fortunate  or  an  un- 
fortunate fate  that  had  prevented  the  gay  little  lady 
of  the  pink  cheeks  from  being  at  that  moment  installed 
at  Barf ord  as  the  wife  of  a  poet  who  scorned  publicity. 

If  Wentworth  had  been  riding  home  to  his  wife  on 
that  February  evening  he  would  not  have  taken  uncon- 
sciously another  of  the  many  steps  which  entailed  so 
many  more,  by  saying  to  himself,  thinking  of  Fay: 

"  Could  a  woman  like  that  love  a  second  time?  " 

Then  he  hastened  his  speed  as  he  remembered  that 
his  old  friend  the  Bishop  of  Lostford  had  by  this  time 
arrived  at  Barf  ord. 


CHAPTER    XI 

If  you  feel  no  love,  sit  still ;  occupy  yourself  with  things, 
with  yourself,  with  anything  you  like,  only  not  with  men. 

— TOLSTOY. 

IN  Wentworth's  youth  he  had  been  attracted  towards 
many,  besides  the  Bishop,  among  the  bolder  and  less 
conventional  of  his  contemporaries.  Their  fire,  their 
energies,  their  enthusiasm,  warmed  his  somewhat  under- 
vitalized  nature.  He  regarded  himself  as  one  of  them, 
and  his  refinement  and  distinction  drew  the  robuster 
spirits  towards  himself.  But  gradually,  as  time  went 
on,  these  energies  and  enthusiasm  took  form,  and,  alas ! 
took  forms  which  he  had  not  expected — he  never  ex- 
pected anything — and  from  which  his  mind  instinc- 
tively recoiled.  He  had  supposed  that  energy  was 
energy.  He  had  not  realised  that  it  was  life  in  embryo, 
that  might  develop,  not  always  on  lines  of  beauty,  into 
a  new  policy,  or  a  great  discovery,  or  a  passion,  or  a 
vocation.  He  hated  transformations,  new  births,  all 
change.  His  friends  at  first  rallied  him  unmercifully, 
then  lost  patience,  and  finally  fell  from  him,  one  by 
one.  Some  openly  left  him,  the  more  good-natured 
among  them  forgot  him,  and  if  by  chance  they  found 
themselves  in  his  society,  hurried  back  with  affection- 
ate cordiality  to  reminiscences  of  school  and  college 
life,  long-passed  milestones  before  the  parting  of  the 
ways. 

The  Bishop  when  he  plunged  into  his  work  also  for 
a  time  lost  sight  of  Wentworth,  but  when  he  was  ap- 

109 


110  PRISONERS 

pointed  to  the  See  of  Lostford,  within  five  miles  of  Bar- 
ford,  the  two  men  resumed,  at  first  with  alacrity,  some- 
thing of  the  old  intercourse. 

Wentworth  had  an  element  of  faithfulness  in  him 
which  enabled  him  to  take  up  a  friendship  after  a 
long  interval,  but  it  was  on  one  condition,  namely  that 
the  friend  had  remained  plante  la  where  he  had  been 
left.  If  in  the  meanwhile  the  friend  had  moved,  the 
friendship  flagged. 

It  was  soon  apparent  that  the  Bishop  had  not  by 
any  means  remained  plante  la,  and  the  friendship 
quickly  drooped.  It  would  long  since  have  died  a  nat- 
ural death  if  it  had  not  been  kept  alive  by  the  Bishop 
himself,  a  man  of  robust  affections  and  strong  com- 
passions, without  a  moment  to  spend  on  small  resent- 
ments. After  Michael's  imprisonment  he  had  redoubled 
his  efforts  to  keep  in  touch  with  Wentworth,  and  the 
great  grief  of  the  latter,  silently  and  nobly  endured, 
had  been  a  bond  between  the  two  men  which  even  a 
miserable  incident  which  must  have  severed  most  friend- 
ships had  served  to  loosen,  not  to  break. 

The  Bishop  had  in  truth  arrived  at  Barford,  and  was 
now  sitting  apparently  unoccupied  by  the  library  fire. 
To  be  unoccupied  even  for  an  instant  except  during  re- 
cuperative sleep  was  so  unusual  with  the  Bishop,  so  un- 
precedented, that  his  daughter  would  have  been  terri- 
fied could  she  have  seen  him  at  that  moment.  He  had 
only  parted  from  her  and  her  husband  at  mid-day,  yet 
it  was  a  sudden  thought  suggested  by  his  visit  to  them 
which  was  now  holding  him  motionless  by  the  fire,  his 
lean  person  bulging  with  unanswered  letters. 

The  Bishop  was  a  small  ugly  man  of  fifty,  uncon- 


PRISONERS  111 

ventional  to  the  core,  the  younger  son  of  a  duke,  and 
a  clergyman  by  personal  conviction.  He  had  been 
born  in  a  hurry,  and  had  remained  in  a  hurry  ever  since. 
He  had  neither  great  administrative  capacities,  nor 
profound  scholarship,  but  what  powers  he  had  were 
eked  out  by  a  stupendous  energy.  His  Archbishop  said 
that  he  believed  that  the  Bishop's  chaplains  died  like 
flies,  and  that  he  merely  threw  their  dead  bodies  into 
the  Loss,  which  flowed  beneath  his  palace  windows,  with- 
out even  a  burial  service.  His  chaplains  and  secre- 
taries certainly  worked  themselves  to  the  bone  for  him. 
They  could  have  told  tales  against  him,  but  they  never 
did.  For  it  was  a  strain  to  serve  the  Bishop,  to  get 
his  robes  thrown  over  him  at  the  right — I  mean  the 
last — second,  to  thrust  him  ruthlessly  into  his  carriage 
just  in  time  to  catch  the  tail  ends  of  departing  trains — 
he  generally  travelled  with  the  guard.  His  admirable 
life  had  been  spent  in  a  ceaseless  whirl.  He  had  never 
had  time  to  marry.  He  had  hurried  to  the  altar  when 
he  was  an  eager  curate  with  a  pretty  young  bride  who 
was  a  stranger  to  him,  whom  his  mother  had  chosen  for 
him.  During  the  years  that  followed  what  little  he 
saw  of  her  at  odd  moments  he  liked.  After  ten  years 
of  what  he  believed  to  be  married  life  she  died,  leaving 
one  child ;  tactful  to  the  last,  pretty  to  the  last,  having 
made  no  claim  from  first  to  last,  kissing  his  hand,  and 
thanking  him  for  his  love,  and  for  the  beautiful  years 
they  had  spent  together. 

His  friends  said  that  he  bore  her  loss  with  heroism, 
but  in  reality  he  missed  her  but  little.  Her  death  oc- 
curred just  after  he  had  become  an  ardent  suffragan. 
His  daughter  grew  up  in  a  few  minutes,  and  quickly 


112  PRISONERS 

took  her  mother's  place.  She  was  her  mother  over 
again  in  character  and  appearance.  His  wife  had  lived 
in  his  house  for  ten  years,  his  daughter  for  twenty. 
By  dint  of  time  he  learned  to  know  her  as  he  had  never 
known  her  mother.  At  twenty  she  married  his  chap- 
lain. 

The  chaplain  was  a  tall,  stooping,  fleckless,  flawless, 
mannerless,  joyless  personage,  middle-aged  at  twenty- 
eight,  with  a  voice  like  a  gong,  with  a  metallic  mind 
constructed  of  thought-tight  compartments,  devoted 
body  and  soul  to  the  Church,  an  able  and  indefati- 
gable worker,  smelted  from  the  choice  ore  of  that  great 
middle  class  from  which,  as  we  know,  all  good  things 
come.  That  he  was  a  future  ornament,  or  at  any  rate 
an  iron  girder  of  the  Church  was  sufficiently  obvious. 

The  Bishop  saw  his  worth,  and  ruefully  endured  him 
until  the  chaplain,  in  the  most  suitable  language,  de- 
sired to  become  his  son-in-law,  and  that  at  the  most 
inconceivably  awkward  moment,  namely,  just  when  the 
Bishop  had  presented  him  with  a  living.  The  marriage 
had  to  be.  The  daughter  wished  it  with  an  intensity 
that  amazed  her  father.  And  gradually  the  Bishop 
discovered  that  he  detested  his  paragon  of  a  son-in-law. 
But  why?  It  was  not  jealousy.  He  really  was  a 
Daragon,  not  a  sham.  To  the  Bishop  it  seemed,  and 
with  truth,  that  any  other  woman  would  have  done  as 
well  as  his  daughter,  that  her  husband  neither  under- 
stood her  ncr  wished  to  understand  her,  that  he  ac- 
cepted ruthlessly  without  knowing  that  he  accepted  it, 
her  selfless  devotion,  that  he  used  her  as  a  cushion  to 
make  his  rare  moments  of  leisure  more  restfm.  that  her 
love  was  not  even  a  source  of  happiness  to  him,  only  a 


PRISONERS  113 

solace.  And  she,  extraordinary  to  behold,  was  radi- 
antly content. 

"  Just  like  her  mother  over  again,"  the  Bishop  had 
wrathfully  said  to  himself  as  he  drove  away  from  his 
daughter's  door.  And  at  that  moment  a  slide  was  drawn 
back  from  his  mind,  and  he  saw  that  the  marriage  was 
a  replica  of  his  own,  except  in  so  far  that  his  son-in- 
law,  greatly  assisted  by  circumstances,  had  actually 
taken  a  little  trouble  to  arrange  his  marriage  for  him- 
self, while  the  Bishop's — what  there  was  of  it — had 
been  done  for  him  by  his  mother. 

Till  this  morning  he  had  believed  his  marriage  to 
have  been  an  ideally  happy  one,  that  he  had  felt  all 
that  man  can  feel;  and  he  had  been  inclined  to 
treat  as  womanish  the  desperate  desolation  of  men  who 
had  after  all  only  suffered  the  same  bereavement  as  he 
had  himself,  and  which  he  had  quickly  overcome.  He 
saw  now  that  he  had  missed  happiness  exactly  as  his 
son-in-law  was  missing  it.  The  same  thing  had  be- 
fallen them  both.  Love  could  do  there  no  mighty 
works  because  of  their  unbelief.  When  he  remembered 
his  wife's  face  he  realised  that  her  joy  had  been  some- 
thing beyond  his  ken.  He  had  not  shared  it.  He  had 
not  known  love,  even  when  it  had  drawn  very  nigh  unto 
him. 

As  he  waited  motionless  for  Wentworth  to  come  in, 
his  strong,  intrepid  mind  worked.  The  Bishop  at  fifty 
went  to  school  to  a  new  thought.  It  was  that  power 
of  going  to  school  at  fifty  to  a  new  thought  which  had 
made  his  Archbishop,  who  loved  him,  give  him  the  See 
of  Lostford,  to  the  amazement  of  the  demurer  clergy 
who  were  scandalised  by  his  unccnventionality,  and  his 


114  PRISONERS 

fearful  baldness  of  speech.  They  could  only  account 
for  the  appointment  by  the  fact  that  he  was  the  son 
of  a  duke.  It  was  that  power  which  made  the 
Bishop  seem  a  much  younger  man  than  Wentworth, 
who  was  in  reality  ten  years  his  junior.  The  Bishop 
was  still  a  learner.  He  still  moved  with  vigour  men- 
tally. Wentworth,  on  the  contrary,  had  arrived — not 
at  any  place  in  particular,  but  at  the  spot  where  he 
intended  to  remain.  His  ideas,  and  some  of  them  had 
been  rather  good  ones  at  twenty-five,  had  suffered  from 
their  sedentary  existence.  They  had  become  rather 
stout.  He  called  them  progressive  because  in  the  course 
of  years  he  had  perceived  in  them  a  slight  glacier-like 
movement.  To  others  they  appeared  fixed. 

Wentworth's  attitude  towards  life,  of  which  he  was 
so  fond  of  speaking,  was  perhaps  rather  like  that  of 
a  shrimper  who,  in  ankle-deep  water,  watches  the  heavily 
freighted  whale  boats  come  towering  in.  He  does  not 
quite  know  why  he,  of  all  men,  with  his  special  equip- 
ment for  the  purpose,  and  his  expert  handling  of  the 
net,  does  not  also  catch  whales.  That  they  seldom  swim 
in  two-inch  water  does  not  occur  to  him.  At  last  he 
does  not  think  there  are  any  whales.  He  has  exploded 
that  fallacy.  For,  in  a  moment  of  adventurous  enthu- 
siasm, counting  not  the  cost,  did  he  not  once  wade  reck- 
lessly up  to  his  very  shoulders  in  deep  water :  and  there 
were  no  whales, — only  pinching  crabs.  Crabs  were  the 
one  real  danger,  the  largest  denizens  of  the  boundless 
main,  whatever  his  former  playmates  the  whalers  might 
affirm. 

When  the  shrimper  and  the  whaler  had  dined  to- 
gether, and  the  Bishop  had  heard  with  affectionate  sym- 


PRISONERS  115 

pathy  the  little  there  was  to  hear  respecting  Michael, 
and  the  conversation  tended  towards  more  general 
topics,  the  radical  antagonism  between  the  two  friends' 
minds  threatened  every  moment  to  make  itself  felt. 

The  Bishop  tried  politics  somewhat  tentatively,  on 
which  they  had  sympathised  in  college  days,  but  it 
seemed  they  had  widely  diverged  since.  Wentworth, 
though  he  frequently  asserted  that  no  one  enjoyed  more 
than  he  "  the  clashing  of  opposite  opinions,"  seemed 
nevertheless  only  able  to  welcome  with  cordiality  a  mild 
disagreement,  just  sufficiently  defined  to  prove  stimu- 
lating to  the  expression  of  his  own  views.  A  wide  di- 
vergence from  them  he  met  with  a  chilly  silence.  He 
did  so  now.  The  Bishop  looked  at  his  neat  ankle,  and 
changed  the  subject. 

"  Have  you  seen  or  heard  anything  of  Everard  Con- 
stable since  he  came  into  his  kingdom,  such  a  very  un- 
expected kingdom,  too  ?  " 

"  No.  I  fancy  he  is  still  abroad.  But  I  can't  say 
that  for  some  time  past  I  have  found  Constable's  aims 
in  life  very  sympathetic.  His  unceasing  struggle  after 
literary  fame  appears  to  me  somewhat  undignified." 

"  Oh !  come.  Give  the  devil  his  due.  Constable  can 
write." 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  That  is  just  what  I  am  say- 
ing. But  he  and  I  differ  too  widely  in  our  outlook  on 
life  to  remain  really  intimate.  He  cares  for  the  big 
things,  ambition,  popularity,  a  prominent  position, 
luxury.  He  will  enjoy  being  a  personage,  and  having 
wealth  at  his  command.  For  my  part,  I  am  afraid  I 
care  infinitely  more  for  the  small  things  of  life,  love, 
friendship,  sympathy." 


116  PRISONERS 

"  The  small  things !  Good  Lord !  "  said  the  Bishop, 
and  his  jaw  dropped.  He  also  dropped  the  subject. 

"  I  ran  up  against  Grenfell  last  week,"  he  continued 
immediately.  "  Do  you  see  him  now?  You  and  he  used 
to  be  inseparable  at  Cambridge." 

Wentworth  became  frigid. 

Grenfell  had  accused  him  at  their  last  meeting  of 
being  an  old  maid,  an  accusation  which  had  wounded 
Wentworth  to  the  quick,  and  which  he  had  never  for- 
gotten or  forgiven.  He  had  not  in  the  least  realised 
that  Grenfell  was  not  alluding  to  the  fact  that  he  hap- 
pened to  be  unmarried. 

"  I  can't  say  I  care  to  see  him  now,"  he  said.  "  He 
has  become  entirely  engrossed  in  his  career.  A  simple 
life  like  mine,  the  life  of  thought,  no  longer  interests 
him.  He  is  naturally  drawn  to  people  who  are  playing 
big  parts." 

"What  nonsense!  He  is  just  the  same  as  ever.  A 
little  vehement  and  fiery,  but  not  as  much  as  he  was. 
They  say  he  will  be  the  next  Chancellor  of  the  Exche- 
quer to  a  certainty." 

"  I  daresay  he  will.  He  has  the  art  of  keeping  him- 
self before  the  public  eye.  Being  myself  so  constituted 
— it  is  not  any  virtue  in  me,  only  a  constitutional  de- 
fect— that  I  cannot  elbow  for  a  place,  it  is  difficult  for 
me  to  understand  how  another,  especially  a  man  like 
Grenfell,  can  bring  himself  to  do  so.  I  had  always 
thought  he  was  miles  above  that  kind  of  thing." 

"  So  he  is.  So  he  is.  A  blind  man  can  see  Grenf ell's 
unworldliness.  It  sticks  a  yard  out  of  him.  My  dear 
Wentworth,  if  energetic  elbows  were,  as  you  imply,  the 
key  to  success,  how  do  you  account  for  the  fact  that 


PRISONERS  117 

hundreds  of  painful  persons  have  triumphantly  passed 
that  preliminary  examination  who  never  achieve  any- 
thing beyond  a  diploma  in  the  art  of  pushing?  " 

Wentworth  did  not  answer. 

He  firmly  believed  that  in  order  to  attain  the  things 
he  had  not  attained,  had  never  striven  for,  of  which  he 
invariably  spoke  disparagingly,  but  which  he  secretly 
and  impotently  desired,  the  co-operation  of  certain  ig- 
noble qualities  was  essential,  sordid  allies  whom  he  would 
have  disdained  to  use. 

"  I  don't  blame  Grenfell,"  he  said  at  last.  "  He  had 
his  way  to  make.  I  know  how  blinding  the  glamour  of 
ambition  is,  how  insidious  and  insistent  the  claims  of 
the  world  may  become.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  superior 
to  certain  temptations  if  they  came  in  my  way.  But  I 
happen  to  have  kept  out  of  their  way.  That  is  all." 

"  You  have  certainly  kept  out  of  the  way  of — nearly 
everything." 

"  For  my  part,  I  daresay  I  am  hopelessly  out  of 
date,  but  I  value  beauty  and  peace  and  simplicity  higher 
than  a  noisy  success.  But  a  noisy  success  is  the  one 
thing  that  counts  nowadays." 

"Does  it?" 

"  And  Grenfell  has  taken  the  right  steps  to  gain  it. 
If  a  man  craves  for  popularity,  if  he  really  thinks 
the  bubble  worth  striving  for,  he  must  lay  himself  out 
for  it.  If  he  wants  a  place  he  must  jostle  for  it.  If 
he  wants  power  he  must  discard  scruples.  If  he  wants 
social  success  it  can  be  got — we  see  it  every  day — by 
pandering  to  the  susceptibilities  and  seeking  the  favour 
of  influential  persons.  Everything  has  its  price.  I 
don't  say  that  everyone  obtains  these  things  who  is 


118  PRISONERS 

ready  to  bid  for  them.  But  some  do.  Grenfell  is 
among  those  who  have.  I  don't  blame  him.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  don't  rather  envy  him." 

The  Bishop  could  respect  a  conviction. 

"  Are  you  not  forgetting  Grenf ell's  character  ?  "  he 
said  gently,  as  one  speaks  to  a  sick  man.  "  Think 
of  him,  his  nobility,  his  integrity,  his  enthusiasm,  his 
transparent  unworldliness  which  so  often  in  the  old 
days  put  us  all  to  shame ! " 

"  That  is  just  what  makes  it  all  so  painful  to  me," 
said  Wentworth,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  doubt- 
ing his  sincerity.  "  That  contact  with  the  world  can 
taint  even  beautiful  natures  like  his.  He  was  my  ideal 
at  one  time.  I  almost  worshipped  him  at  Cambridge." 

"  I  love  him  still,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  A  cat  may 
look  at  a  king,  so  I  suppose  a  poor  crawler  of  a  bishop 
may  look  at  a  man  like  Grenfell.  Don't  you  think, 
Wentworth,  that  sometimes  a  man  who  succeeds  may 
have  worked  as  nobly  as  a  man  who  fails — you  always 
speak  so  feelingly  of  failure,  it  is  one  of  the  many 
things  I  like  about  you.  Don't  you  think  that  per- 
haps sometimes  success  may  be — I  don't  say  it  always 
is — as  high-minded  as  failure,  that  a  hard-won  victory 
may  be  as  honourable  as  defeat,  that  achievement  may 
sometimes  be  the  result  not  of  chance  or  interest,  but 
of  unremitting  toil?  Don't  you  think  you  may  be  un- 
consciously cutting  yourself  adrift  from  Grenfell's 
friendship  by  attributing  his  success  to  unworthy  means 
which  a  man  like  him  could  never  have  stooped  to  ?  " 

"  It  is  he  who  has  cut  himself  adrift  from  me,"  said 
Wentworth  icily.  "  I  have  not  changed." 

"  That  is  just  it.     A  slight  change,  shall  we  say  ex- 


PRISONERS  119 

pansion  on  your  part,  might  have  enabled  you  to  " — 
the  Bishop  chose  his  words  as  carefully  as  a  doctor 
counts  drops  into  a  medicine  glass — "  to  keep  pace  with 
him?" 

"  I  do  not  regard  friendship  as  a  race  or  a  combat 
of  wits,"  said  Wentworth.  "  Friendship  is  to  my  mind 
something  sacred.  I  hope  I  can  remain  Grenfell's 
friend  without  believing  him  to  be  absolutely  faultless. 
If  he  is  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect  that  of  me,  which 
I  should  not  for  a  moment  expect  of  him,  why 
then "  Wentworth  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

One  of  the  few  friends  who  had  not  drifted  from  him 
looked  at  him  with  somewhat  pained  affection. 

Why  does  a  life  dwelt  apart  from  others  tend  to 
destroy  first  generosity  and  then  tenderness  in  man  and 
woman?  Why  does  one  so  often  find  a  certain  hard- 
ness and  inhumanity  encrusting  those  who  have  with- 
drawn themselves  behind  the  shutters  of  their  own 
convenience,  or  is  it,  after  all,  their  own  impotence? 

'*  Has  he  always  been  hard  and  cold  by  nature?  " 
said  the  Bishop  to  himself,  "'  and  is  the  real  man  show- 
ing himself  in  middle  age,  or  is  his  meagre  life  starving 
him?" 

He  tried  again. 

"  You  nearly  lost  my  friendship  a  year  ago  by  at- 
tributing a  sordid  motive  to  me,  Wentworth." 

Wentworth  understood  instantly. 

"  That  is  all  past  and  forgotten,"  he  said  quickly. 
"  I  never  think  of  it.  Have  I  ever  allowed  it  to  make 
the  slightest  difference  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Bishop,  looking  hard  at  him,  "  and 
for  that  matter  neither  have  I.  We  have  never  talked 


120  PRISONERS 

the  matter  out.  Let  us  do  so  now.  I  don't  suppose 
you  have  forgotten  the  odium  I  incurred  over  the 
living  of  Rambury.  It  had  been  held  for  generations 
by  old  men.  It  had  become  a  kind  of  clerical  almshouse. 
When  it  fell  vacant  there  was  of  course  yet  another 
elderly  cleric " 

"  My  uncle,"  said  Wentworth,  "  a  most  excellent 
man." 

"  Just  so,  but  in  failing  health.  Rightly  or  wrongly 
I  was  convinced  that  it  was  my  duty  to  give  the  place 
a  chance  by  putting  there  a  younger  man,  of  energy 
and  capacity  for  hard  work.  I  gave  it  to  my  future 
son-in-law  as  you  know." 

Wentworth  nodded.  "  Everyone  said  at  the  time  he 
was  an  excellent  man,"  he  said  with  evident  desire  to 
be  fair. 

"  I  daresay,  but  that  is  not  the  point.  The  point  is 
that  I  had  no  idea  that  iron  traction  engine  wanted  to 
marry  my  daughter  or  anybody's  daughter.  The  tact- 
less beast  got  up  steam  and  proposed  for  her  the  day 
after  I  had  offered  him  the  living.  He  had  never  given 
so  much  as  a  preliminary  screech  on  the  subject,  never 
blown  a  horn  to  show  what  his  horrid  intentions  were — 
I  only  hope  that  if  I  had  known  I  should  still  have  had 
the  moral  courage  to  appoint  him.  The  Archbishop 
assures  me  I  should — but  I  doubt  it.  I  was  loudly 
accused  of  nepotism,  of  course.  Your  uncle,  who  died 
soon  afterwards,  forgave  me  in  the  worst  of  taste  on 
his  deathbed.  I  had  no  means  of  justifying  myself. 
The  Archbishop  and  Grenfell  and  a  few  other  old 
friends  believed.  Why  were  you  not  among  those  old 
friends,  Wentworth?  " 


PRISONERS  121 

"  I  was  among  them,"  said  Wentworth,  meeting  the 
Bishop's  sombre  eyes.  "  You  never  answered  it,  so  I 
suppose  you  never  received  it,  but  at  the  time  I  wrote 
you  a  long  letter  assuring  you  that  I  for  one  had  not 
joined  in  the  cry  against  you,  even  though  my  uncle 
did.  I  frankly  owned  that,  while  I  regarded  the  ap- 
pointment as  an  ill-considered  one,  I  took  for  granted 
that  Mr.  Rawlings  was  suited  for  the  place.  I  said 
that  I  knew  you  far  too  well  to  suppose  even  for  a 
moment  that  you  would  have  given  the  post  to  a  man, 
even  if  he  were  your  son-in-law,  unless  he  had  been 
competent  to  fill  it.  You  never  answered  the  letter,  so 
I  suppose  it  failed  to  reach  you." 

"  I  received  it,"  said  the  Bishop  slowly.  "  I  felt  it 
to  be  an  illuminating  document,  but  it  did  not  seem  to 
call  for  an  answer.  It  was  in  itself  a  response  to  a 
tacit  appeal." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  he  continued  cheerfully. 
"  Rawlings  has  proved  himself  dreadfully  competent 
as  you  prophesied,  and  Lucy  is  very  happy  in  her  new 
home.  I  came  on  from  there  this  morning.  My  son- 
in-law,  with  the  admirable  promptitude  and  economy 
of  time  which  endeared  him  to  me  as  my  chaplain,  had 
arranged  that  every  moment  of  my  visit  should  be 
utilised;  that  I  should  christen  their  first  child,  dedi- 
cate a  thank-offering  in  the  shape  of  a  lectern,  con- 
secrate the  new  portion  of  the  churchyard,  open  a 
reading-room,  and  say  a  few  cordial  words  at  a  draw- 
ing-room meeting  before  I  left  at  mid-day.  I  told 
him  if  he  went  on  like  this  he  would  certainly  come  to 
grief  and  be  made  a  bishop  some  day.  But  he  only 
remarked  that  he  was  not  solicitous  of  high  preferment. 


122  PRISONERS 

I  think  you  would  like  Rawlings  if  you  knew  him  bet- 
ter. You  and  he  have  a  certain  amount  in  common. 
I  must  own  that  I  am  glad  that  it  is  Lucy  who  has  to 
put  up  with  him  and  not  I.  I  should  think  even  God 
Almighty  must  find  him  rather  difficult  to  live  with  at 
times.  And  now,  Wentworth,  if  I  am  to  be  up  and 
away  at  cock-crow,  I  must  go  to  bed." 

But  the  Bishop  did  not  go  to  bed  at  once  when  Went- 
worth had  escorted  him  to  his  room. 

"  It  was  no  use,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It  was  worth 
trying,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  never  saw  that  he  had 
misjudged  me.  He  met  my  eye.  He  has  a  straight, 
clean  eye.  He  is  sincere  as  far  as  he  goes,  but  how  far 
does  he  go  ?  He  has  never  made  that  first  step  towards 
sincerity  of  doubting  his  own  sincerity.  He  mistakes 
his  moods  for  convictions.  He  has  never  suspected  his 
own  motives,  or  turned  them  inside  out.  He  suspects 
those  of  others  instead.  He  is  like  a  crab.  He  moves 
sideways  by  nature,  and  he  thinks  that  everyone  else 
who  moves  otherwise  is  not  straightforward,  and  that 
he  must  make  allowances  for  them.  According  to  his 
lights  he  has  behaved  generously  by  me.  Has  he! 
Damn  him!  God  forgive  me.  Well,  I  must  stick  to 
him,  for  I  believe  I  am  almost  the  only  friend  he  has 
left  in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  XII 

Shall  soul  not  somehow  pay  for  soul? — D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

FAY  did  not  sleep  that  night. 

For  a  long  time  past,  she  seemed  to  have  been  grad- 
ually, inevitably  approaching,  dragging  reluctant  feet 
towards  something  horrible,  unendurable.  She  could 
not  look  this  veiled  horror  in  the  face.  She  never 
attempted  to  define  it  to  herself.  Her  one  object  was 
to  get  away  from  it. 

It  had  not  sprung  into  life  full  grown.  It  had 
gradually  taken  form  after  Michael's  imprisonment. 
At  first  it  had  been  only  an  uneasy  ghost  that  could  be 
laid,  a  spectre  across  her  path  that  could  be  avoided; 
but  since  she  had  come  home  it  had  slowly  attained 
gigantic  and  terrifying  proportions.  It  loomed  be- 
fore her  now  as  a  vague  but  insistent  menace,  from 
which  she  could  no  longer  turn  away. 

A  great  change  was  coming  over  Fay,  but  she  tacitly 
resisted  it.  She  did  not  understand  it,  nor  realise  that 
the  menace  came  from  within  her  gates,  was  of  the 
nature  of  an  insurrection  in  the  citadel  of  self.  We 
do  not  always  recognise  the  voice  of  the  rebel  soul 
when  first  it  begins  to  speak  hoarsely,  unintelligibly, 
urgently  from  the  dark  cell  to  which  we  have  rele- 
gated it. 

Some  of  us  are  so  constituted  that  we  can  look  back 
at  our  past  and  see  it  as  a  gradation  of  steps,  a  sort 

123 


124  PRISONERS 

of  sequence,  and  can  thus  gain  a  kind  of  inkling  of  the 
nature  of  the  next  step  against  which  we  are  even  now 
striking  our  feet. 

But  poor  Fay  saw  her  life  only  as  shattered,  mean- 
ingless fragments,  confused,  mutilated  masses  without 
coherence.  The  masses  and  the  gaps  between  them 
were  of  the  same  substance  in  her  eyes.  She  wandered 
into  her  past  as  a  child  might  wander  among  the  rub- 
bish heaps  of  its  old  home  in  ruins.  She  was  vaguely 
conscious  that  there  had  been  a  design  once  in  those 
unsightly  mounds,  that  she  had  once  lived  in  them. 
On  that  remnant  of  crazy  wall  clung  a  strip  of  wall- 
paper which  she  recognised  as  the  paper  in  her  own 
nursery ;  here  a  vestige  of  a  staircase  that  had  led  to 
her  mother's  room.  And  as  a  child  will  gather  up  a 
little  frockful  of  sticks  and  fallen  remnants,  and  then 
drop  them  when  they  prove  heavy,  so  Fay  picked  up 
out  of  her  past  tiny  disjointed  odds  and  ends  of  ideas 
and  disquieting  recollections,  only  to  cast  them  aside 
again  as  burdensome  and  useless. 

The  point  to  which  she  wandered  back  most  fre- 
quently— to  stare  blankly  at  it  without  comprehension 
— was  her  husband's  appeal  to  her  on  his  deathbed. 
To-night  she  had  gone  back  to  it  again  as  to  a  tot- 
tering wall.  She  had  worn  a  little  pathway  over  heaps 
of  miserable  conjectures  and  twisted  memories  towards 
that  particular  place. 

She  saw  again  the  duke's  dying  face,  and  the  ten- 
der fixity  of  his  eyes.  She  could  almost  hear  his  dif- 
ficult waning  voice  saying: 

"  The  sun  shines.  He  does  not  see  them,  the  spring 
and  the  sunshine.  Since  a  year  he  does  not  see  them. 


PRISONERS  127 

of  her  husband's  dying  speech  she  had  turned  with  all 
her  might  to  Magdalen,  had  cast  herself  upon  her, 
clung  to  her  in  a  sort  of  desperation.  Magdalen  at 
any  rate  believed  in  her. 

For  many  months  after  she  came  to  Priesthope,  her 
mind  remained  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  and  it  seemed  at  first 
as  if  she  were  regaining  a  sort  of  calm,  caught  as  it 
were  from  Magdalen's  presence. 

But  gradually  miserable  brooding  memories  returned, 
and  it  seemed  at  last  as  if  something  in  Magdalen's  gen- 
tle serenity  irritated  instead  of  soothing  Fay  as  hereto- 
fore. Was  Magdalen  a  sort  of  unconscious  ally  of 
that  fainting  soul  within  Fay's  fortress?  Were  chance 
words  of  Magdalen's  beginning  to  make  the  rebel  stir  in 
his  cell?  At  any  rate  something  stirred.  Something 
was  making  trouble.  Fay  began  to  shrink  from  Mag- 
dalen, involuntarily  at  first,  then  purposely  for  long 
moody  intervals.  Then  she  would  be  sarcastic  and 
bitter  with  her,  jibe  at  the  housekeeping,  and  criticise 
the  household  arrangements.  A  day  later  she  would 
be  humbly  and*  hysterically  affectionate  once  more,  ask- 
ing to  be  forgiven  for  her  waywardness.  She  could  not 
live  without  the  comfort  of  Magdalen's  tenderness.  And 
at  times  she  could  not  live  with  it.  Magdalen  preserved 
an  unmoved  front.  She  ignored  her  sister's  petulance 
and  spasmodic  fault-finding.  She  knew  they  were 
symptoms  of  some  secret  ill,  but  what  that  ill  was  she 
did  not  know.  She  kept  the  way  open  for  Fay's  sud- 
den remorseful  return  to  affectionate  relations,  and 
waited. 

Those  who,  like  Magdalen,  do  not  put  any  value  on 
themselves,  are  slow  to  take  offence.  It  was  not  that 


128  PRISONERS 

she  did  not  perceive  a  slight,  or  a  rebuff,  or  a  sneer  at 
her  expense,  but  she  never,  so  to  speak,  picked  up  the 
offence  flung  at  her.  She  let  it  lie,  by  the  same  instinct 
that  led  her  to  step  aside  in  a  narrow  path  rather  than 
that  her  skirt  should  touch  a  dead  mole.  No  one  could 
know  Magdalen  long  without  seeing  that  she  lived  by 
a  kind  of  spiritual  instinct,  as  real  to  her  as  the  natural 
instincts  of  animals. 

Fay  became  more  and  more  haggard  and  irritable 
as  the  months  at  Priesthope  drew  into  a  year.  A  new 
element  of  misery  was  added  to  her  life  by  the  sight 
of  Wentworth,  and  his  visits  were  becoming  frequent. 
His  mere  presence  made  acute  once  more  that  other 
memory,  partially  blurred,  persistently  pushed  aside — 
the  memory  of  Michael  in  prison.  The  figure  of  the 
duke  had  temporarily  displaced  that  other  figure  in 
its  cell. 

But  now  the  remembrance  of  Michael,  continually 
stirred  up  by  poor  Wentworth,  with  his  set,  bereaved 
face,  was  never  suffered  to  sleep.  With  every  week  of 
her  life  it  seemed  to  Fay  some  new  pain  came. 

Magdalen  could  not  comfort  her.  Magdalen,  who 
was  so  fond  of  Michael. 

If  Magdalen  knew! 

Magdalen  must  never,  never  know.  She  could  not 
live  without  Magdalen.  Magdalen  was  not  like  Andrea 
in  that.  She  at  any  rate  was  concealing  nothing,  could 
know  nothing.  Now  that  Andrea  was  dead,  only  one 
living  person  beside  herself  knew — Michael.  Fay  was 
unconsciously  growing  to  hate  the  thought  of  that 
one  other  person,  to  turn  with  horror  from  the  remem- 
brance of  Michael:  his  sufferings,  his  patient  life  in 


PRISONERS  129 

death  filled  her  with  nausea,  disgust.  Her  vehement 
selfish  passion  for  him  had  been  smothered  by  the  hid- 
eous debris  which  had  been  cast  upon  it. 

She  had  never  loved  him,  as  the  duke  well  knew,  and 
now  the  shivering  remembrance  of  him,  constantly  re- 
newed by  Wentworth,  had  become  like  a  poignard  in  a 
wound  that  would  not  heal.  Wentworth  had  to-day  yet 
again  unconsciously  turned  the  dagger  in  the  wound, 
and  her  whole  being  sickened  and  shuddered.  Oh!  if 
she  could  only  tear  out  that  sharp-bladed  remembrance 
and  cast  it  from  her,  then  in  time  the  aching  wound  in 
her  life  might  heal,  and  she  might  become  happy  and 
well  and  at  peace  once  more ; — at  peace  like  Magdalen. 
An  envious  anger  flared  up  in  her  mind  against  Magda- 
len's calm  and  happy  face. 

Oh,  if  poor  Michael  could  only  die!  He  wanted  to 
die.  If  only  he  could  die  and  release  her.  Release  Tier 
from  what? 

From  her  duty  to  speak  and  set  him  free?  Those 
were  the  words  which  she  never  permitted  the  rebel  voice 
within  to  say.  Still,  they  were  there,  silenced  for  the 
time,  but  always  waiting  to  be  said.  Their  gagged 
whisper  reached  her  in  spite  of  herself. 

Oh !  if  only  Michael  were  dead  and  out  of  his  suffer- 
ing, then  she  would  never  be  tortured  by  them  any 
more.  Then,  too,  her  husband's  words  would  lose  their 
poisoned  point,  and  she  could  thrust  them  forth  from 
her  mind  for  ever. 

"  Francesca,  how  much  longer  will  you  keep  your 
cousin  Michael  in  prison  ?  " 

Oh !  Cruel,  cruel  Andrea,  vindictive  to  the  very  gates 
of  death. 


130  PRISONERS 

Down  the  empty,  whispering  gallery  of  ghostly 
fears  in  which  her  life  crouched,  Michael's  voice  spoke 
to  her  also.  She  could  hear  his  grave,  low  tones.  "  Think 
of  me  as  in  fairy-land." 

That  tender,  compassionate  message  had  a  barbed 
point  which  pierced  deeper  even  than  the  duke's  words. 

Her  lover  and  her  husband  seemed  to  have  conspired 
together  to  revenge  themselves  upon  her. 

Fay  leaned  her  pretty  head  against  the  window-sill 
and  sobbed  convulsively. 

Poor  little  soul  in  prison,  weeping  behind  the  bars  of 
her  cell,  that  only  her  own  hands  could  open ! 

Were  not  Fay  and  Michael  both  prisoners,  fast 
bound ;  she  in  misery,  he  only  in  iron. 

The  door  opened  gently  and  Magdalen  came  in  in  a 
long  white  wrapper,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand. 

She  put  down  the  candle  and  came  towards  Fay. 
She  did  not  speak.  Her  face  quivered  a  little.  She 
bent  over  the  huddled  figure  in  the  window  seat,  and  with 
a  great  tenderness  drew  it  into  her  arms.  For  a  moment 
Fay  yielded  to  the  comfort  of  the  close  encircling  arms, 
and  leaned  her  head  against  Magdalen's  breast. 

Then  she  wrenched  herself  free,  and  pushed  her  sis- 
ter violently  from  her. 

"  Why  do  you  come  creeping  in  like  that  ?  "  she  said 
fiercely.  "  You  only  come  to  spy  upon  me." 

Magdalen  did  not  speak.  She  had  withdrawn  a  pace, 
and  stood  looking  at  her  sister,  her  face  as  white  as 
her  night-gown. 

Fay  turned  her  tear-drenched  face  to  the  window  and 
looked  fixedly  out.  There  was  a  faint  movement  in  the 
room.  When  she  looked  round  Magdalen  was  gone. 


PRISONERS  131 

Fay,  worn  with  two  years  of  partially  eluded  suffer- 
ing, restless  with  pain,  often  sick  at  heart,  was  at  last 
nearing  the  last  ditch : — but  she  had  not  reached  it  yet. 

Many  more  useless  tears,  many  more  nights  of 
anguish,  many  more  days  of  sullen  despair  still  lay 
between  her  and  that  last  refuge. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

II  n'y  a  point  de  passe  vide  ou  pauvre,  il  n'y  a  point 
d'evenements  miserables,  il  n'y  a  que  des  evenements 
miserablement  accueillis. — MAETERLINCK. 

MAGDALEN  went  back  to  her  own  room,  and  set  down  her 
candle  on  the  dressing-table  with  a  hand  that  trembled 
a  little. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  gone,"  she  said  half  aloud, 
"  and  yet — I  knew  she  was  awake  and  in  trouble.  And 
she  nearly  spoke  to  me  to-day.  I  thought — perhaps  at 
last — the  time  had  come  like  it  did  with  Mother.  But 
I  was  wrong.  I  ought  not  to  have  gone." 

The  large  room  which  had  been  her  mother's,  the 
elder  Fay's,  seemed  to-night  crowded  with  ghostly  mem- 
ories: awakened  by  the  thought  of  the  younger  Fay 
sobbing  in  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage. 

In  this  room,  in  that  bed,  the  elder  Fay  had  died 
eighteen  years  ago. 

How  like  the  mother  the  child  had  become  who  had 
been  named  after  her. 

Magdalen  saw  again  in  memory  the  poor  pretty  apa- 
thetic mother  who  had  taken  so  long  to  die;  a  grey- 
haired  Fay,  timid  as  the  present  Fay,  unwise,  inconse- 
quent, blind  as  Fay,  feebly  unselfish,  as  alas!  Fay  was 
not. 

There  is  in  human  nature  a  forlorn  impulse,  to  which 
Mrs.  Bellairs  had  yielded,  to  speak  at  last  when  the 
great  silence  draws  near,  of  the  things  that  have  long 

132 


PRISONERS  133 

cankered  the  heart,  to  lay  upon  others  part  of  the  un- 
bearable burden  of  life  just  when  death  is  about  to  re- 
move it.  Mrs.  Bellairs  had  always  groped  feebly  in 
heavy  manacles  through  life,  in  a  sort  of  twilight,  but 
her  approaching  freedom  seemed  towards  the  last  to 
throw  a  light,  faint  and  intermittent  but  still  a  light, 
on  much  that  had  lain  confused  and  inexplicable  in  her 
mind.  Many  whispered  confidences  were  poured  into 
Magdalen's  ears  during  those  last  weeks,  faltered  dis- 
jointed revelations,  which  cut  deep  into  the  sensitive 
stricken  heart  of  the  young  girl,  cutting  possibly  also 
new  channels  for  all  her  after  life  to  flow  through. 

Did  the  mother  realise  the  needless  anguish  she  in- 
flicted on  the  spirit  of  the  grave,  silent  girl  of  seven- 
teen. Perhaps  she  was  too  near  the  great  change  to 
judge  any  longer — not  that  she  had  ever  judged — what 
was  wise  or  unwise,  what  was  large  or  small.  Trivial 
poisoned  incidents  and  the  deep  wounds  of  life,  petty 
unreasonable  annoyances  and  acute  memories  were  all 
jumbled  together.  She  had  never  sorted  them,  and  now 
she  had  ceased  to  know  which  was  which.  The  feeble 
departing  spirit  wandered  aimlessly  among  them. 

"  You  must  stand  up  to  your  father,  Magdalen,  when 
I'm  gone.  I  never  could.  I  was  too  much  in  love  with 
him  at  first,  and  later  on  when  I  tried  he  had  got  the 
habit  of  my  yielding  to  him,  and  it  made  a  continual 
wretchedness  if  I  opposed  him.  He  always  thought  I 
did  not  love  him  if  I  did  not  consent  to  everything  he 
wished,  or  if  I  did  not  think  him  right  whatever  he 
did.  I  did  try  to  stand  up  about  the  children,  but 
at  last  I  gave  up  that  too.  I  was  not  fit  to  have  chil- 
dren, if  I  sacrificed  their  wellbeing  to  his  caprice  and 


134  PRISONERS 

his  whim,  but  that  was  what  I  did.  I  have  been  a  poor 
mother,  and  an  unfaithful  friend,  and  an  unjust 
mistress.  Women  like  me  have  no  business  to 
marry.  .  .  . 

"  You  don't  remember  Annie,  do  you  ?  She  was  sec- 
ond housemaid,  the  best  servant  I  ever  had.  She  was 
engaged  to  William,  the  footman  with  the  curly  hair. 
He  is  butler  now  at  Barford.  She  cared  for  him  dread- 
fully, poor  soul.  But  your  father  could  not  bear  her 
because  she  had  a  squint,  and  he  never  gave  me  any 
peace  till  I  parted  with  her.  I  did  part  with  her — and 
I  got  her  a  good  place — but — I  spoilt  her  marriage. 
It  did  not  take  much  spoiling  perhaps,  for  after  she 
was  gone  he  soon  began  to  walk  with  the  kitchen  maid, 
but — she  had  been  kind  to  me.  So  good  once  when  I 
was  ill,  and  my  maid  was  ill.  She  did  everything  for 
me.  I  have  often  cried  about  that  at  night  since." 

"  Mother  always  used  to  tell  me  and  I  never  believed 
it,  but  it  is  true — men  are  children  and  it  is  no  good 
thinking  them  different.  They  never  grow  up.  I  don't 
know  if  there  are  any  grown  up  men  anywhere.  I 
suppose  there  must  be — but  I  have  never  met  one.  I 
don't  know  any  Prime  Ministers  or  Archbishops,  but 
I  expect  they  are  just  the  same  as  your  father  in 
home  life. 

"  I  daresay  your  father  will  be  sorry  when  I'm  gone. 
People  like  your  father  are  always  very  fond  of  some- 
one who  is  dead,  who  has  no  longer  any  claim  upon 
them :  a  mother  or  a  sister,  whom  they  did  not  take  much 
trouble  about  when  they  were  alive. 


PRISONERS  135 

"  Of  course  I  am  going  to  die  first,  but  I  sometimes 
used  to  think  if  your  father  died  before  me  and  if  he 
were  allowed  to  come  back  after  death — such  things  do 
happen — I  had  a  friend  who  saw  a  ghost  once — whether 
he  would  be  as  vexed  then  at  any  little  change  as  he  is 
now.  You  know,  Magdalen,  it  has  always  been  a  cross 
to  me  that  the  writing-table  in  my  sitting-room  is  away 
from  the  light.  My  eyes  were  never  strong.  I  moved 
it  near  the  window  when  I  first  came  here,  but  your 
father  was  annoyed  and  had  it  put  back  where  it  is 
now,  because  his  mother  always  had  it  there.  But  I 
really  could  not  see  to  write  there.  And  I  have  often 
thought  if  he  came  back  after  he  was  dead  whether  he 
would  mind  if  he  found  I  had  moved  it  nearer  the 
window. 

"  The  Bishop  of  Elvaston  married  us.  I  daresay 
you  don't  remember  him,  my  dear.  He  died  a  few  years 
later.  He  had  a  wart  on  his  chin  and  he  once  shook 
hands  with  baby's  feet.  But  he  was  good.  He  told 
me  I  must  sacrifice  all  to  love.  But  what  has  been  the 
use  of  aU  my  sacrifices,  first  of  myself  and  then  of 
others?  Your  father  has  not  been  the  happier  or  the 
better  for  it,  but  the  worse.  I  have  let  him  do  so  many 
cruel  little  things  for  which  others  have  suffered.  It 
was  not  exactly  that  he  did  not  see  what  he  was  doing. 
He  would  not  see.  Some  people  are  like  that.  They 
won't  look,  and  they  become  dreadfully  angry  if  they 
are  asked  to  look.  I  gave  it  up  at  last.  Oh,  my  poor 
husband!  I  knew  I  had  failed  everybody  else,  but  at 
any  rate  not  him.  But  I  see  now," — the  weak  voice 
broke — "  I  see  now  that  I  have  failed  him,  too.  We 


136  PRISONERS 

ought  never  to  have  married.  Love  is  not  any  guide 
to  happiness.  Remember  that,  Magdalen.  We  were 
both  weak.  He  was  weak  and  domineering.  I  was  weak 
and  yielding.  I  don't  know  which  is  the  worst." 

As  the  shadows  deepened  all  the  tacit  unforgiveness 
of  a  weak,  down-trodden  nature  which  has  been  van- 
quished by  life  whispered  from  the  brink  of  the  grave. 

"  I  have  never  been  loved.  I  have  given  everything, 
and  I  have  had  nothing  back.  Nothing.  Nothing. 
Don't  marry,  Magdalen.  Men  are  all  like  that.  Lots 
of  women  say  the  same.  They  take  everything  and  they 
give  nothing.  It  is  our  own  fault.  We  rear  them  to 
it  from  their  cradles.  From  their  schooldays  we  teach 
them  that  everything  is  to  give  way  to  them,  beginning 
with  the  sisters.  With  men  it  is  Take,  Take,  Take, 
until  we  have  nothing  left  to  give.  I  went  bankrupt 
years  ago.  There  is  nothing  left  in  me.  I  have  noth- 
ing and  I  am  nothing.  I'm  not  dying  now.  I  have 
been  dead  for  years. ' 

"  You  say  I  am  going  to  be  at  peace,  Magdalen,  but 
how  do  you  know?  I  daresay  I'm  not.  I  daresay  I  am 
going  to  hell,  but  if  I  do  I  don't  care.  I  don't  care 
where  I  go  so  long  as  it  is  somewhere  where  there  aren't 
any  more  husbands,  and  housekeeping,  and  home,  weary, 
weary  home,  and  complaints  about  food.  I  don't  want 
ever  to  see  anything  again  that  I  have  known  here.  I 
am  so  tired  of  everything.  I  am  tired  to  death." 

Poor  mother  and  poor  daughter. 

Who  shall  say  what  Magdalen's  thoughts  were  as 
she  supported  her  mother's  feeble  steps  down  to  the 


PRISONERS  137 

grave.  Perhaps  she  learned  at  seventeen  what  most  of 
us  only  learn  late,  so  late,  when  life  is  half  over. 

Bitterness,  humiliation,  the  passionate  despair  of  the 
heart  which  has  given  all  and  has  received  nothing, — 
these  belong  not  to  the  armed  band  of  Love's  pilgrims, 
though  they  dog  his  caravan  across  the  desert. 

These  are  only  the  vultures  and  jackal  prowlers  in 
Love's  wake,  ready  to  pounce  on  the  faint  hearted  pil- 
grim who  through  weakness  falls  into  the  rear,  where 
fang  and  talon  lie  in  wait  to  swoop  down  and  rend  him. 

If  we  adventure  to  be  one  of  Love's  pilgrims  we 
must  needs  be  long  suffering  and  meek,  if  we  are  to  win 
safe  with  him  across  the  desert,  and  see  at  last  his  holy 
city. 

Tears  welled  up  into  Magdalen's  eyes  as  one  piteous 
scene  after  another  came  back  to  her,  enacted  in  this 
very  room. 

Poor  little  mother,  who  had  seemed  to  Magdalen  then 
so  old  and  forlorn,  who,  when  she  died,  had  only  been 
a  year  or  two  older  than  Magdalen  herself  was  now. 

And  poor  little  wavering  life  sobbing  in  the  room  at 
the  end  of  the  passage  over  seme  mysterious  trouble. 

The  elder  Fay  lived  on  in  trie  younger  Fay.  Was  she 
also  to  be  vanquished  by  life,  to  become  gradually  em- 
bittered and  resentful?  There  seemed  to  be  nothing 
in  her  lot  to  make  her  so.  What  was  it,  what  could  it- 
be  that  was  casting  a  blight  over  Fay's  life? 

How  to  help  her,  how  to  release  her  from  the  self-im- 
posed fetters  in  which  her  mother  had  lived  and — died. 

Just  as  some  persons  have  the  power  of  making  some- 
thing new  out  of  refuse — paper  out  of  rags — so  Mag- 


138  PRISONERS 

dalen  seemed  to  have  the  power  of  cherishing  and 
transforming  the  weaker,  meaner  elements  of  the  char- 
acters with  which  she  came  in  contact.  Certain  qualities 
in  those  we  are  inclined  to  love  daunt  us.  Insincerity, 
callousness,  selfishness,  treachery  in  its  more  refined 
aspects,  these  are  apt  to  arouse  at  first  incredulity  and 
at  last  scorn  in  us.  But  they  aroused  neither  in  Mag- 
dalen. She  saw  them  with  clearness,  and  dealt  tenderly 
with  them. 

What  others  discarded  as  worthless,  she  valued.  To 
push  aside  the  feeble  and  intermittent  affection  of  a 
closed  and  self-centred  nature,  believing  it  is  giving  its 
best,  what  is  that  but  to  push  aside  a  poor  man's  little 
offering.  Many  years  ago  Magdalen  had  accepted 
not  without  tears,  one  such  offering  from  a  very  poor 
man  indeed. 

Loving-kindness,  tenderness,  have  their  warped, 
stunted  shoots  as  well  as  their  free-growing,  stately 
blossoms.  It  is  the  same  marvellous,  fragrant  life 
struggling  to  come  forth  through  generous  or  barren 
soil.  There  are  some  thin,  dwarfed,  almost  scentless 
flowers  of  love  and  friendship,  of  which  we  can  discern 
the  faint  fragrance  only  when  we  are  on  our  knees. 
But  some  of  us  have  conscientious  scruples  about  kneel- 
ing down  except  at  shrines.  Magdalen  had  not. 

She  knew  that  Fay  cared  but  little  for  her  in  reality. 
But  she  also  knew  that  she  did  care  a  little.  Fay  had 
turned  to  her  many  times,  and  had  repulsed  and  for- 
gotten her  not  a  few  times. 

Magdalen  had  a  good  memory. 

"  When  she  really  wants  me  she  will  turn  to  me 
again,"  she  said  tranquilly  to  herself. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

Toute  passion  a  son  chemin  de  croix. 

AND  Michael? 

What  of  him  during  these  two  endless  years? 

What  did  he  think  about  during  his  first  year  in 
prison:  what  was  the  first  waking  in  his  cell  like,  the 
second,  the  third,  the  gradual  discovery  of  what  it 
means  to  be  in  prison?  Was  there  a  bird  outside  his 
window  to  wound  him?  The  oncome  of  summer,  the 
first  thrill  of  autumn,  how  did  he  bear  them? 

His  was  not  a  mind  that  had  ever  dwelt  for  long 
upon  itself.  The  egoist's  torturing  gift  of  intro- 
spection and  self-analysis  was  not  his.  He  had  never 
pricked  himself  with  that  poisoned  arrow.  So  far  he 
had  not  thought  it  of  great  importance  what  befel 
him.  Did  he  think  so  now?  Did  he  brood  over  his 
adverse  fate?  Did  he  rebel  against  it,  or  did  he  accept 
it?  Did  angels  of  despair  and  anguish  wrestle  with 
him  through  the  hot  nights  until  the  dawn?  Did  his 
famishing  youth  rise  up  against  him?  Or  did  that 
most  blessed  of  all  temperaments,  the  impersonal  one, 
minister  to  him  in  his  great  need? 

Perhaps  at  first  he  was  supported  by  the  thought 
that  he  was  suffering  voluntarily  for  Fay's  sake.  Per- 
haps during  the  first  year  he  kept  hold  of  the  remem- 
brance of  her  love  for  him.  Perhaps  in  time  he  forgot 
what  he  had  read  in  the  depths  of  her  terror-stricken 

139 


140  PRISONERS 

eyes  as  he  had  emerged  from  behind  the  screen.  There 
had  been  no  thought  of  him  at  that  moment  in  those 
violet  eyes,  no  anxiety  for  him,  no  love. 

Or  perhaps  he  had  not  forgotten,  and  had  realised 
that  her  love  for  him  was  very  slenderly  built.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  foreshadow  of  that  realisation  that  had  made 
him  know  in  his  first  weeks  in  prison,  before  the  trial, 
that  she  would  not  speak. 

Michael  had  unconsciously  readjusted  several  times 
already  in  pain  his  love  for  Fay.  He  did  it  again  dur- 
ing that  first  year  in  prison.  He  saw  that  she  was  not 
capable  of  love  as  he  understood  it.  He  saw  that  she 
was  not  capable  of  a  great  sacrifice  for  his  sake.  The 
sacrifice  which  would  have  exonerated  him  had  been 
altogether  too  great.  Yes,  he  saw  that.  It  had  been 
cruel  of  him  to  think  even  for  a  moment  that  she  might 
make  it.  What  woman  would !  His  opinions  respecting 
the  whole  sex  had  to  be  gently  lowered  to  meet  the  occa- 
sion. Nevertheless  she  did  love  him  in  her  own  flower- 
like  way.  She  would  certainly  have  made  a  small 
sacrifice  for  his  sake.  His  love  was  tenderly  moved  and 
re-niched  into  a  smaller  demand  on  hers,  one  that  she 
could  have  met  without  too  much  distress.  His  bruised 
mind  comforted  itself  with  the  conviction  that  if  a 
slight  sacrifice  on  her  part  could  have  saved  him  she 
would  indubitably  have  made  it. 

After  a  year  in  prison  the  news  tardily  reached 
Michael  through  his  friend,  the  doctor,  that  the  duke 
was  dead. 

The  news,  so  long  expected,  gave  him  a  pang  when 
it  did  at  last  arrive.  He  had  liked  the  duke.  For  a 
moment  they  had  been  very  near  to  each  other. 


PRISONERS  141 

But  now,  now,  Fay  would  release  him.  It  would  still 
be  painful  to  her  to  do  so,  but  in  a  much  lesser  degree 
than  heretofore.  She  would  have  to  endure  certain 
obvious,  though  groundless,  inferences  from  which  her 
delicacy  would  shrink.  But  she  was  free  to  marry 
him  now,  and  that  made  all  the  difference  as  to  the  ex- 
planation she  would  have  to  give.  A  little  courage  was 
all  that  was  needed,  just  enough  to  make  a  small  sacri- 
fice for  him.  She  would  certainly  have  that  amount. 
The  other  had  been  too  much  to  expect.  But  this 

Michael  leaned  his  forehead  against  the  stone  wall 
of  his  cell,  and  sobbed  for  joy. 

Oh!  God  was  good.  God  was  merciful.  He  knew 
how  much  he  could  bear.  He  knew  that  he  was  but 
dust.  He  had  not  tried  him  beyond  his  strength. 

Michael  was  suffused  with  momentary  shame  at  the 
joy  that  the  death  of  his  friend  had  brought  him. 

Nevertheless,  like  a  mountain  spring  that  will  not  be 
denied,  joy  ever  rose  and  rose  afresh  within  him. 

Fay  and  he  could  marry  now.  The  thought  of  her, 
the  hungered  craving  for  her  was  no  longer  a  sin. 

It  was  Sunday  evening.  The  myriad  bells  of  Venice 
were  borne  in  a  floating  gossamer  tangle  of  sound 
across  the  water. 

Joy,  overwhelming,  suffocating  joy  inundated  him. 

He  stumbled  to  his  feet,  and  clung  convulsively  to 
the  bars  of  his  narrow  window. 

How  often  he  had  heard  the  bells,  but  never  with  this 
voice ! 

He  looked  out  across  the  wide  water  with  its  floating 
islands,  each  with  its  little  campanile.  His  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  sails  of  the  fishing  boats  from  Chioggia, 


142  PRISONERS 

floating  like  scarlet  and  orange  butterflies  in  the  pearl 
haze  of  the  lagoon. 

How  often  he  had  watched  them  in  pain.  How  often 
he  had  turned  his  eyes  from  them  lest  that  mad  rage 
for  freedom  which  entered  at  times  into  the  man  in 
the  next  cell,  when  the  boats  passed,  should  enter  also 
into  him,  and  break  him  upon  its  wheel. 

He  looked  at  the  boats  now  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
They  gleamed  at  him  like  a  promise  straight  from  God. 
How  freely  they  moved.  Free  as  air;  free  as  the  sea- 
mew  with  its  harsh  cry  wheeling  close  at  hand  under  a 
luminous  sky. 

He  also  should  be  free  soon,  should  float  away  past 
the  gleaming  islands,  over  a  sea  of  pearl  in  a  boat  with 
an  orange  sail. 

For  Fay  would  come  to  him.  The  one  woman  in  the 
world  of  counterfeits  would  come  to  him,  and  set  him 
free.  She  would  take  him  in  her  arms  at  last,  and  lay 
her  cool  healing  touch  upon  his  aching  life.  And  he 
would  lean  his  forehead  against  her  breast,  and  his 
long  apprenticeship  to  love  would  be  over.  It  seemed 
to  Michael  that  she  was  here  already,  her  soft  cheek 
against  his. 

He  pressed  his  face  to  the  stone  wall,  and  whispered 
as  to  her: 

"  Fay,  have  I  served  you?  " 

He  almost  heard  her  tremulous  whisper,  "  Yes." 

"  Do  you  still  love  me?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  We  may  love  each  other  now." 

Again  Fay's  voice  very  low.     "  Yes." 

It  had  to  be  like  that.    This  moment  was  only  a  faint 


PRISONERS  143 

foreshadowing  of  that  unendurable  joy,  which  inevita- 
bly had  to  come. 

A  great  trembling  laid  hold  on  Michael.  He  could 
not  stand.  He  fell  on  his  knees,  but  he  could  not  kneel. 
He  stretched  himself  face  downwards  on  his  pallet. 
But  it  was  not  low  enough.  He  flung  himself  on  the 
floor  of  his  cell,  but  it  was  not  low  enough.  A  grave 
would  hardly  have  been  low  enough.  The  resisting 
stone  floor  had  to  do  instead. 

And  through  the  waves  of  awe  and  rapture  that  swept 
over  him  came  faintly  down  to  him,  as  from  some  dim 
world  left  behind,  the  bells  of  Venice,  and  the  thin  cry 
of  the  sea-mew  rejoicing  with  him. 

Can  we  call  a  life  sad  which  has  had  in  it  one  such 
blessed  hour? 

Luminous  day  followed  luminous  day,  and  the  nights 
also  were  full  of  light.  His  work  was  nothing  to  him. 
The  increasing  heat  was  nothing  to  him.  His  chains 
were  nothing  to  him. 

But  at  last  when  the  weeks  drew  into  a  month,  two 
months,  a  chill  doubt  took  up  its  abode  with  him.  It 
was  resolutely  cast  out.  But  it  returned.  It  was 
fought  against  with  desperation.  It  was  scorned  as 
want  of  faith.  Michael's  strength  waned  with  each  con- 
flict. But  it  always  returned.  At  last  it  became  to 
him  like  a  mysterious  figure,  always  present  with  him. 

"  Fay,"  he  whispered  over  and  over  again  through 
the  endless  burning  nights  of  summer.  "  Dear  one, 
come  soon." 

There  was  neither  speech  nor  language,  only  the  lying 
bells  in  the  dawn. 

The  shadow  deepened. 


144  PRISONERS 

A  frightful  suspense  laid  its  cold,  creeping  hold  on 
Michael. 

What  could  have  happened? 

Was  she  ill? 

Was  she  dead? 

He  waited,  and  waited,  and  waited.    Time  stood  still. 

Let  no  one  say  that  he  has  found  life  difficult  till 
he  has  known  what  it  is  to  wait;  till  he  has  waited 
through  the  endless  days  that  turn  into  weeks  more 
slowly  than  an  acorn  turns  into  a  sapling ;  through  the 
unmoving  weeks  that  turn  into  months  more  slowly  than 
a  sapling  turns  into  a  forest  tree, — for  a  word  which 
does  not  come. 

Late  in  the  autumn,  six  months  and  five  days  after 
the  death  of  the  duke — Michael  marked  each  day  with 
a  scratch  on  the  wall — he  received  a  letter  from  Went- 
worth.  He  was  allowed  to  receive  two  letters  a  year. 

He  dreaded  to  open  it.  He  should  hear  she  was  dead. 
He  had  known  all  the  time  that  she  was  dead.  That 
flowerlike  face  was  dust. 

With  half  blind  eyes,  that  made  the  words  flicker 
and  run  into  each  other,  he  sought  through  Went- 
worth's  long  letter  for  her  name.  Bess,  the  retriever, 
had  had  puppies.  The  Bishop  of  Lostford's  daughter 
had  married  his  chaplain — a  dull  marriage,  and  the 
Bishop  had  not  been  able  to  resist  appointing  his  son- 
in-law  to  a  large  living.  The  partridges  had  done  well. 
He  had  got  more  the  second  time  over  than  last  year. 
But  he  did  not  care  to  shoot  without  Michael. 

He  found  her  name  at  last  on  the  third  sheet,  just 
a  casual  sentence. 


PRISONERS  145 

"  Your  cousin,  the.  Duchess  of  Colle  Alto,  has  come  to 
live  at  Priesthope  for  good.  She  has  been  there  nearly 
six  months.  I  see  her  occasionally.  At  first  she  ap- 
peared quite  stunned  by  grief,  but  she  is  becoming 
rather  more  cheerful  as  time  passes  on." 

The  letter  fell  out  of  Michael's  hand. 

"  Rather  more  cheerful  as  time  passes  on" 

Someone  close  at  hand  laughed,  a  loud,  fierce  laugh. 

Michael  looked  up  startled.  He  was  alone.  He  never 
knew  that  it  was  he  who  had  laughed. 

"  Rather  more  cheerful  as  time  passes  on" 

He  looked  back  and  saw  the  months  of  waiting  that 
lay  behind  him, — during  which  the  time  had  passed  on. 
He  saw  them  pieced  together  into  a  kind  of  map ;  an 
endless  desert  of  stones  and  thorns,  and  in  the  midst 
a  little  figure  in  the  far  distance,  coming  toiling 
towards  him,  under  a  blinding  sun. 

That  figure  was  himself.  And  this  was  what  he  had 
reached  at  last.  He  had  touched  the  goal. 

She  had  left  Italy  for  good.  She  had  gone  back  to 
her  own  people ;  not  lately,  but  long  ago,  months  ago. 
When  he  had  first  heard  of  the  duke's  death,  even  while 
he  was  counting  daily,  hourly,  on  her  coming  as  the 
sick  man  counts  on  the  dawn;  even  then  she  was  ar- 
ranging to  leave  Italy  for  good.  Even  then,  when  he 
was  expecting  her  day  by  day,  she  must  have  made  up 
her  mind  not  to  speak.  She  would  not  face  anything 
for  his  sake.  She  had  decided  to  leave  him  to  his. 
fate. 

She  who  looked  so  gentle,  was  hard ;  she  who  wept  at 
a  bird's  grief  over  its  rifled  nest,  was  callous  of  suf- 
fering. She,  who  had  seemed  to  love  him — he  felt  still 


146  PRISONERS 

her  hands  holding  his  hands  against  her  breast — 
had  never  loved  him.  She  did  not  know  what  love 
was. 

She  was  inhuman,  a  monster.     He  saw  it  at  last. 

There  is  in  love  a  spiritual  repulsion  to  which  physi- 
cal repulsion  at  its  worst  is  but  a  pale  shadow.  Those 
who  give  love  to  one  who  cannot  love  may  not  escape 
the  stroke  of  that  poisoned  fang.  Sooner  or  later  that 
shudder  has  to  come. 

Only  while  we  are  young  do  we  believe  that  the  reverse 
of  love  is  hate.  We  learn  later,  and  that  lesson  we  never 
forget,  for  love  alone  can  teach  it,  that  the  reverse  of 
love  is  egotism.  The  egoist  cannot  love.  Can  we  en- 
dure that  knowledge  and  go  on  loving?  Can  we  be 
faithful,  tender,  selfless  to  one  who  exacts  all  and  gives 
nothing,  who  forgets  us  and  grieves  us,  even  as  day  by 
day  we  forget  and  grieve  our  unforsaking  and  faithful 
God? 

Can  we  endure  for  love  of  man  what  God  endures 
for  love  of  us? 

The  duke's  words  came  back  to  Michael. 

*'  Why  do  you  deceive  yourself,  my  friend  ?  There 
is  only  one  person  for  whom  she  has  a  permanent  and 
deep  affection — for  her  very  charming  self." 

He  had  thought  of  her  as  his  wife  for  six  months  and 
four  days. 

Michael  beat  his  manacled  hands  against  the  wall 
till  they  bled.  He  broke  his  teeth  against  his  chains. 

If  Fay  had  come  in  then  he  would  have  killed  her, 
done  her  to  death  with  the  chains  he  had  worn  so 
patiently  for  her  sake. 


'IF  FAY  HAD  COME  IN  THEN  HE    WOULD    HAVE    KILLED  HER,   DONE 

HER  TO  DEATH  WITH  THE  CHAINS  HE  HAD  WORN  SO 

PATIENTLY  FOR  HER  SAKE  " 


PRISONERS  147 

And  that  night  the  convict  in  the  next  cell,  who  had 
at  times  such  wild  outbursts  of  impotent  rage  when 
the  boats  went  by,  heard  as  he  lay  awake  a  low  sound 
of  strangled  anguish,  that  ever  stifled  itself  into  silence, 
and  ever  broke  forth  anew,  from  dark  to  dawn. 


CHAPTER    XV 

Qui  sait  ce  qui  peut  advenir  de  la  fragilite  des 
femmes?  Qui  sait  jusq'ou  peut  aller  1'inconstance  de  ce 
sable  mouvant? — ALFRED  DE  MUSSET. 

THE  Italian  winter  was  closing  in.     The  nights  were 
bitter  cold. 

Had  Michael  reached  at  last  the  death  of  love?  Was 
its  strait  gate  too  narrow  for  him? 

After  that  one  night  he  held  his  peace,  even  with 
himself,  even  with  the  walls  of  his  cell.  He  did  not 
sleep  nor  eat.  He  had  no  time  to  sleep  or  eat.  He  was 
absorbed  in  one  idea. 

Michael  was  not  a  thinker.  He  was  a  man  of  action, 
whose  action,  sharp,  rapier-like,  and  instantaneous,  was 
unsheathed  only  by  instinctive  feeling,  by  chivalry,, 
honour,  indignation,  compassion,  never  by  reflection, 
judgment,  experience.  He  could  not  really  think» 
What  he  learned  had  to  reach  him  some  other  way.  His 
mind  only  bungled  up  against  ideas,  hustled  them,  so 
to  speak,  till  they  turned  savage. 

He  sat  idly  in  his  cell  when  his  work  was  done.  There 
was  a  kind  of  pressure  on  him,  as  if  the  walls  were  clos- 
ing in  on  him.  Sometimes  he  got  up,  and  pushed 
them  back  with  his  hands. 

The  sun  had  shifted  his  setting  as  the  winter  drew 
in,  and  for  a  few  minutes  every  afternoon  laid  a  thong 
of  red  light  upon  his  wall.  He  looked  at  it  sternly 
while  it  burned.  It  looked  back  sternly  at  him. 

148 


PRISONERS  149 

He  had  no  wish  to  be  free  now,  no  wish  for  any- 
thing. 

The  doctor  came  to  see  him,  and  looked  closely  at  him, 
and  spoke  kindly  to  him.  He  was  interested  in  the 
young  Englishman,  and,  like  several  of  the  warders,  was 
convinced  of  his  innocence. 

Michael  took  no  notice  of  him,  barely  answered  his 
questions.  He  was  impatient  of  any  interruption. 

He  was  absorbed  in  one  thought. 

He  had  loved  Fay  for  a  long  time.  How  long  was  it  ? 
Five  years?  Ten  years?  Owing  to  his  peculiar  fate 
love  had  usurped  in  Michael's  life  too  large  a  place,  the 
place  which  it  holds  in  a  woman's  life,  but  which  is 
unnatural  in  a  man's.  He  did  not  know  it,  but  he  had 
travelled  a  long  way  on  the  road  towards  an  entire 
oblivion  of  Fay  when  he  came  to  Rome.  But  the  one 
great  precaution  against  her  he  had  not  taken.  He  had 
not  replaced  her,  and  "  Only  that  which  is  replaced  is 
destroyed."  He  had  grown  accustomed  to  loving 
her. 

In  these  days  he  went  over,  slowly,  minutely,  every 
step  of  his  long  acquaintanceship  with  her,  from  the 
first  day,  when  he  was  nineteen  and  she  was  seventeen, 
to  the  last  evening  six  years  later,  when  he  had  kissed 
the  cold  hand  that  could  have  saved  him,  and  did 
not. 

Old  people,  wise  old  learned  people,  smoke-dried 
Dons  and  genial  bishops  sitting  in  their  dignified 
studies,  had  spoken  with  guarded  frankness  to  him  in 
his  youth  on  the  temptations  of  life.  They  had  told 
him  that  love,  save  when  it  was  sanctified  by  marriage, 
was  only  a  physical  passion,  a  temporary  madness,  a 


150  PRISONERS 

fever  which  all  men  who  were  men  underwent,  but  to 
which  a  man  of  principle  did  not  succumb,  and  which 
if  vigorously  suppressed  soon  passed  away. 

Why  had  it  not  been  so  with  him  ?  He  had  never  had 
to  contend  with  the  coarse  forms  of  temptation  of 
which  his  elders  had  spoken,  as  if  they  were  an  integral 
part  of  his  youth. 

Why,  then,  had  he  loved  this  pretty,  false,  selfish 
woman  so  long?  Why  had  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
drawn  back  into  her  toils  after  he  had  known  she  was 
false?  Why  was  he  more  weak,  more  credulous,  more 
infatuated  than  other  men? 

The  duke  had  actually  been  her  husband,  had  actu- 
ally possessed  that  wonderful  creature,  and  yet  he, 
under  the  glamour  of  her  personal  presence,  which  it 
made  Michael  gasp  to  think  of,  he,  the  duke,  had  not 
been  deceived. 

Why  had  he,  Michael,  been  deceived? 

He  remembered  the  exhortations  of  his  tepid-minded, 
painlessly  married  tutor  at  Oxford,  who  read  the  vilest 
French  novels  as  a  duty,  and  took  a  walk  with  his  wife 
on  fine  afternoons;  and  whose  cryptic  warnings  on  the 
empire  of  the  passions  would  have  made  a  baboon 
blush. 

Michael  laughed  suddenly  as  he,  recalled  the  mild 
old-maidish  face.  What  was  the  old  prig  talking  about  ? 
What  did  he  know,  dried  up  and  shrivelled  like  a  bit 
of  seaweed  between  the  leaves  of  a  folio. 

Everyone  had  told  him  wrong. 

Why  had  they  decried  this  awful  power,  why  had 
they  so  confused  it  with  sensual  indulgence  that  he  had 
had  to  disentangle  it  for  himself?  Why  had  they  not 


PRISONERS  151 

warned  him,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  love  of  woman  was 
a  living  death,  a  pitfall  from  which  there  was  no  escape, 
from  the  depths  of  which  you  might  stare  at  the  sky 
till  you  starved  to  death,  as  he  was  doing  now. 

With  all  their  warnings  they  had  not  warned  him, 
these  grave  men,  these  instructors  of  youth,  who  had 
never  known  any  world  except  their  little  world  of 
books,  who  ranged  women  into  two  camps,  one  in  which 
they  held  a  docile  Tennysonian  place,  as  chaste  adorners 
of  the  sacred  home,  mothers  of  children,  man's  prop- 
erty, insipid  angel  housekeepers  of  his  demure  middle 
age;  the  other  where  they  were  depicted  as  cheap, 
vulgar  temptresses,  on  a  level  with  the  wine  cup  and 
the  gambling  table. 

Why  had  he  allowed  himself  to  be  duped  and  hood- 
winked by  his  elders  and  by  his  own  shyness,  into 
chastity?  They  had  entreated  him  to  believe  it  was 
the  only  happy  life.  It  was  not.  To  be  faithful  to 
his  future  wife.  Ha!  Ha!  That  was  the  beginning 
of  the  trap,  the  white  sand  neatly  raked  over  the  hid- 
den gin. 

If  he  had  only  lived  like  other  men !  If  he  had  only 
listened  to  the  worst  among  them,  if  he  had  only  torn 
the  veil  early  from  every  limb  of  that  draped  female  fig- 
ure, that  iron  maiden,  if  he  had  only  seen  it  in  its 
horror  of  nudity,  with  its  sharp  nails  for  eyes,  and  its 
jagged  knives  where  the  bosom  should  be,  he  should 
not  be  pressed  to  death  in  its  embrace  now. 

He  had  been  deceived,  betrayed,  fooled.  That  was 
why  he  was  shut  up.  He  had  believed  in  a  woman,  had 
believed  that  the  cobra's  bite  was  only  a  wasp's  sting. 
Good  Lord,  what  an  imbecile !  He  was  insane  of  course, 


152  PRISONERS 

raving  mad.  And  he  had  been  here  eighteen  months 
and  only  saw  the  joke  now. 

Michael  laughed  again,  shouted  with  laughter. 

The  sun  was  setting  again.  It  was  always  setting 
now.  It  set  in  the  mornings  as  well.  The  red  thong 
of  light  was  on  the  wall  again.  Blood  red !  He  rocked 
to  and  fro  shaking  with  laughter. 

The  doctor  and  a  warder  came  in.  It  was  just  like 
them.  They  were  always  coming  in  when  they  were 
not  wanted. 

He  pointed  at  the  bar  of  light,  stumbled  to  it,  and 
tried  to  tear  it  from  the  wall.  It  had  been  there  long 
enough.  Too  long.  And  as  he  tore  at  it  with  hands 
dyed  crimson,  something  that  was  pressing  upon  him 
lightened  suddenly,  and  the  blood  gushed  forth  from 
his  mouth,  flooding  the  sun-stained  wall. 

"  I  have  put  out  that  damned  sunset  at  last,"  he  said 
to  himself  as  he  fell. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

So  we  must  keep  apart, 

You  there,  I  here, 

With  just  the  door  ajar 

That  oceans  are, 

And  prayer, 

And  that  pale  sustenance 

Despair ! 

— EMILY  DICKENSON. 

IT  was  a  little  after  Christmas  when  Michael  first  began 
to  take  notice  of  his  surroundings  once  more.  There 
was  no  love  or  tenderness  that  Wentworth  could  have 
shown  him  which  the  grave  young  Italian  doctor  did 
not  lavish  on  him. 

Little  by  little  the  mist  in  which  Michael  lay  shifted 
and  cleared,  and  closed  in  on  him  again.  But  the  times 
when  it  cleared  became  nearer  together.  He  felt  that 
the  great  lethargy  in  which  he  lay  would  shift  when  the 
mist  shifted.  Dimly,  as  if  through  innumerable  veils, 
he  was  aware  that  something  indefinable  but  terrible 
crouched  behind  it.  Days  passed.  Blank  days  and 
blank  nights.  He  had  forgotten  everything. 

He  had  been  lying  awake  a  long  time,  years  and 
years.  The  doctor  had  been  in  to  see  him  just  before 
sunrise,  had  raised  him,  and  made  him  drink,  and  laid 
him  back  upon  his  pillow.  And  now  he  felt  full  of  rest. 
How  clear  everything  was  becoming.  He  raised  his 

153 


154  PRISONERS 

hand  to  his  head.  He  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  do 
that  before.  He  looked  long  at  his  wasted  hands  laid 
on  the  coarse  cotton  sheeting.  What  were  these  marks 
on  the  wrists?  They  seemed  like  an  answer  to  a  riddle 
of  which  he  had  forgotten  the  question.  If  he  only 
knew  what  those  marks  were  he  should  know  numbers 
of  other  things  as  well.  He  raised  his  long  right  hand, 
and  held  it  close  to  his  eyes. 

These  marks  were  bruises.  A  line  of  bruises  went 
round  the  wrist.  And  here  over  the  bone  was  a  scar. 
It  was  healed  now,  but  it  had  been  a  deep  sore  once. 

When? 

If  only  he  could  remember ! 

The  mist  in  his  mind  cleared  a  little. 

Those  bruises  were  made  by  chains. 

A  deadly  faintness  came  over  him. 

Michael  knew  at  last  that  he  was  in  prison.  The 
past  filtered  back  into  his  feeble  mind  drop  by  drop. 
He  knew  why  he  was  there.  He  knew  what  he  had  done 
to  bring  him  there;  he  realised  that  he  had  been  ill  a 
long  time,  many  weeks.  But  there  was  still  something 
sinister,  mysterious,  crouching  in  the  back  of  his  mind. 

The  doctor  sought  to  distract  him,  to  rouse  him. 
He  was  a  botanist,  and  he  shewed  Michael  his  collection 
of  grasses.  Michael  did  not  want  to  have  the  fatigue 
of  looking  at  them,  but  he  feigned  an  interest  to  please 
the  doctor.  He  gazed  languidly  at  a  spray,  now  dry 
and  old.  The  doctor  explained  to  him  that  it  was  the 
sea  lavender,  which,  in  the  early  autumn,  had  flushed 
the  shallows  of  the  lagoon  with  a  delicate  grey  lilac. 

"  I  remember,"  said  Michael,  whitening. 


PRISONERS  155 

It  rushed  back  upon  him,  that  time  of  waiting, 
marked  by  the  flowering  and  the  fading  of  the  sea  lav- 
ender. The  colour  was  seared  upon  his  brain. 

"  A  hundred  years  it  is  lilac,"  he  said,  "  and  a  hun- 
dred thousand  years  it  is  a  purple  brown." 

The  doctor,  bending  lovingly  over  a  specimen  of  a 
rare  water  plant,  looked  up  to  see  Michael's  quivering 
face.  He  withdrew  the  book  gently  and  took  it 
away. 

Michael  trembled  exceedingly.  He  was  on  the  verge 
of  some  abyss  which  he  should  see  clearly  in  another 
moment.  The  sea  lavender  grew  on  the  very  edge  of  it. 
It  yawned  suddenly  at  his  feet.  The  abyss  was  Fay's 
last  desertion.  He  looked  down  into  it.  It  was  quite 
dark. 

A  few  days  later  the  doctor  brought  another  book. 
It  was  butterflies  this  time.  He  saw  that  an  increasing 
pressure  was  upon  Michael's  mind,  and  he  feared  for 
his  brain.  He  was  too  weak  to  read.  He  might  per- 
haps like  to  look  at  pictures. 

The  doctor  opened  the  book  at  an  attractive  illus- 
tration of  an  immense  butterfly,  with  wings  of  iridescent 
blue  and  green.  He  could  not  stay,  but  he  left  the 
cherished  volume  open  on  Michael's  knee. 

Michael  turned  his  maimed  mind  slowly  from  the 
abyss  into  which  it  had  been  looking  ever  since  he  had 
seen  that  sprig  of  sea  lavender. 

Yes.  He  knew  that  particular  butterfly.  He  had 
seen  them  by  thousands  once  in  a  field  in  Corfu,  long 
ago  on  an  Easter  holiday,  when  he  had  been  abroad  with 
Wentworth.  They  had  all  glinted  together  in  the  sun- 


156  PRISONERS 

shine,  wheeling  together,  sinking  together,  rising  to- 
gether like  an  army  of  fairies. 

How  heavy  the  book  was  on  his  knee. 

He  had  not  the  energy  to  turn  another  page.  Yes, 
he  must.  The  doctor  would  be  disappointed  if  he  found 
the  book  open  at  the  same  place  when  he  came  back. 
One  leaf.  Come !  He  owed  it  to  his  friend.  Just  one 
leaf. 

Were  there  English  butterflies  here  as  well? 

Yes.    Here  was  a  sheet  of  them. 

He  knew  that  little  yellow  one  with  red  tips  to  its 
wings.  It  was  common  enough  in  the  south  of 
England. 

He  looked  idly  at  it. 

And  somewhere  out  of  the  past,  far,  far  back  from 
behind  the  crystal  screen  of  childhood,  came  a  memory 
clear  as  a  raindrop. 

He  remembered  as  a  tiny  child  lying  in  the  sun  watch- 
ing a  butterfly  like  that ;  watching  it  walk  up  and 
down  on  a  twig  of  whortleberry,  opening  and  shutting 
its  new-born  wings.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  noticed 
how  beautiful  a  butterfly's  wings  were.  His  baby  hand 
went  out  towards  it.  The  baby  creature  did  not  fly, 
was  not  ready  to  fly.  He  grasped  it,  and  laughed  as 
he  felt  it  flutter,  tickling  his  hot  little  palms,  closed  over 
it.  It  gave  him  a  new  sense  of  power.  Then  he  slowly 
pulled  off  its  wings,  one  by  one,  because  they  were  so 
pretty. 

He  remembered  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  and  the 
sudden  disgust  and  almost  fear  with  which  he  suddenly 
tossed  away  the  little  mutilated  ugly  thing  with  strug- 
gling legs. 


PRISONERS  157 

The  cruelty  of  it  filled  him  even  now  with  shamed 
pain. 

"  It  was  not  I  who  did  it,"  he  said  to  himself-  "  I 
did  not  understand." 

And  a  bandage  was  removed  from  his  eyes,  and  he 
looked  down,  as  we  look  into  still  water,  and  he  saw 
that  Fay  did  not  understand  either.  She  had  put  out 
her  hand  to  take  him.  She  had  pulled  his  wings  off  him. 
She  had  cast  him  aside.  Perhaps  she  even  felt  horror 
of  him  now.  But  nevertheless  she  had  not  done  it  on 
purpose,  any  more  than  he  had  done  it  on  purpose  to 
that  other  poor  creature  of  God.  She  did  not 
understand. 

Her  fair,  sweet  face,  which  he  had  shuddered  at  as 
at  a  leper's,  came  back  to  him,  smiling  at  him  with  a 
soft  reproach.  Ah!  It  was  a  child's  face.  That  was 
the  secret  of  it  all.  That  was  one  of  the  reasons  why 
he  had  so  worshipped  it,  that  dear  face.  She  had  not 
meant  to  hurt  him  with  her  pretty  hand. 

Later  on,  some  day,  not  in  this  world  perhaps,  but 
some  far-off  day  she  would  come  to  herself,  and,  looking 
back,  she  would  feel  as  he  felt  now  at  the  recollection 
of  his  infant  cruelty,  only  a  thousand  times  more 
deeply.  He  hoped  to  God  he  might  be  near  her  when 
that  time  of  grief  came,  to  comfort  her,  to  assure  her 
that  the  pain  she  had  inflicted  had  been  nothing,  noth- 
ing, that  it  did  not  hurt. 

An  overwhelming,  healing  compassion,  such  as  he 
had  never  known  in  all  the  years  of  his  great  tender- 
ness for  Fay,  welled  up  within  his  arid  heart. 

Michael's  racked  soul  was  steeped  in  a  great  peace 
and  light ! 


158  PRISONERS 

Time  and  time  again  his  love  for  Fay  had  been 
wounded  nearly  to  the  death,  and  had  been  flung  back 
bleeding  upon  himself.  He  had  always  enfolded  it, 
and  withdrawn  it,  and  cherished  it  anew  in  a  safer  place. 

A  love  that  has  been  thus  withdrawn  and  protected 
does  not  die.  It  shrinks  home  into  the  heart,  that  is  all. 
Like  a  frightened  child  against  its  mother,  it  presses 
close  and  closer  against  the  Divine  Love  that  dwells 
within  us,  which  gave  it  birth.  At  last  the  mother 
smiles,  and  takes  her  foolish  weeping  child,  born  from 
her  body,  which  has  had  strength  from  her  to  wander 
away  from  her — back  into  her  arms. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

And  no  more  turn  aside  and  brood 
Upon  Love's  bitter  mystery. 

— W.  B.  YEATS. 

IT  seems  is  if  in  the  early  childhood  of  all  of  us  some 
tiny  cell  in  the  embryo  brain  remains  dormant  after 
the  intelligence  and  other  faculties  have  begun  to 
quicken  and  waken.  While  that  cell  sleeps  the  child 
is  callous  to  suffering,  even  ingenious  in  inflicting  it. 
The  little  cell  in  the  brain  wakes  and  the  cruelty  disap- 
pears. And  the  same  cell  that  was  slow  to  quicken  in 
the  child  is  often  the  first  to  fall  asleep  in  the  old.  The 
ruthless  cruelty  of  old  age  is  not  more  of  a  crime  than 
the  ruthless  cruelty  of  young  children.  Childhood  does 
not  yet  understand.  Old  age  ceases  to  understand. 

But  some  there  are  among  us  who  have  passed  beyond 
childhood,  beyond  youth,  into  middle  age,  in  whose 
brain  that  little  cell  still  sleeps  and  gives  no  sign  of 
waking,  though  all  the  other  faculties  are  at  their 
zenith;  imagination,  intellect,  lofty  sentiment,  religious 
fervour.  Where  they  go  pain  follows.  They  leave  a 
little  trail  of  pain  behind  them,  to  mark  their  path 
through  life.  They  appear  to  have  come  into  the  world 
to  be  ministered  to,  not  to  minister.  If  love  could 
reach  them,  call  loudly  to  them  from  without,  it  seems 
as  if  the  dormant  cell  might  wake.  But  if  they  meet 
love,  even  on  an  Easter  morning,  and  when  they  are 

150 


160  PRISONERS 

looking  for  him,  they  mistake  him  for  the  gardener. 
They  can  only  be  loved  and  served.  They  cannot  love 
— as  yet.  They  exact  love  and  miss  it.  They  feel 
their  urgent  need  of  its  warmth  in  their  stiffening, 
frigid  lives.  Sometimes  they  gain  it,  lay  their  cold 
hand  on  it,  analyse  it,  foresee  that  it  may  become  an 
incubus,  and  decide  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  got 
out  of  it  after  all. 

They  seem  inhuman  because  they  are  not  human — as 
yet.  They  seem  variable,  treacherous,  because  a  child's 
moral  sense  guiding  a  man's  body  and  brain  must  so 
seem.  They  are  not  sane — as  yet. 

And  all  the  while  the  little  cell  in  the  brain  sleeps, 
and  their  truth  and  beauty  and  tenderness  may  not 
come  forth — as  yet. 

We  who  love  them  know  that,  and  that  our  strained 
faithfulness  to  them  now  may  seem  almost  want  of  faith, 
our  pained  tenderness  now  shew  like  half-heartedness 
on  the  day  when  that  little  cell  in  the  brain  wakes. 

Michael  knew  this  without  knowing  that  he  knew  it. 
His  mind  arrived  unconsciously  at  mental  conclusions 
by  physical  means.  But  in  the  days  that  followed, 
while  his  mind  remained  weak  and  wandering,  he  was 
supported  by  the  illusion — was  it  an  illusion — that  it 
was  Fay  really  who  was  in  prison,  not  himself,  and  that 
he  was  allowed  to  take  her  place  in  her  cell  because  she 
would  suffer  too  much,  poor  little  thing,  unless  he 
helped  her  through. 

He  became  tranquil,  happy,  serene.  He  felt  no  re- 
gret when  he  was  well  enough  to  resume  the  convict- 
life,  and  the  chains  were  put  on  him  once  more.  Did 
he  half  know  that  Fay's  fetters  were  heavier  than  his, 


PRISONERS  161 

that  they  were  eating  into  her  soul,  as  his  had  never 
eaten  into  his  flesh? 

When  he  sent  her  a  message  the  following  spring 
that  he  was  happy,  it  was  because  it  was  the  truth. 
Desire  had  rent  him  and  let  him  go — at  last.  Vague, 
inconsequent  and  restful  thoughts  were  Michael's. 

His  body  remained  feeble  and  emaciated.  But  he 
was  not  conscious  of  its  exhaustion.  His  mind  was  at 
peace  with  itself. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

What  she  craved,  and  really  felt  herself  entitled  to,  was 
a  situation  in  which  the  noblest  attitude  should  also  be  the 
easiest. — EDITH  WHARTON. 

ON  a  stormy  night,  towards  the  end  of  March,  Mag- 
dalen was  lying  awake  listening  to  the  wind.  Her 
tranquil  mind  travelled  to  a  great  distance  away  from 
that  active,  monotonous,  daily  life  which  seemed  to  ab- 
sorb her,  which  had  monopolised  her  energies  but  never 
her  thoughts  for  so  many  years  past. 

Suddenly  she  started  slightly  and  sat  up.  A  storm 
was  coming.  A  tearing  wind  drowned  all  other  sounds, 
but  nevertheless  she  seemed  to  listen  intently. 

Then  she  slowly  got  out  of  bed,  lit  her  candle,  stole 
down  the  passage  to  Fay's  door,  and  listened  again. 
No  sound  within.  At  least  none  that  could  be  dis- 
tinguished through  the  trampling  of  the  wind  over 
the  groaning  old  house. 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  A  little  figure 
was  crouching  over  the  dim  fire,  swaying  itself  to  and 
fro.  It  was  Fay. 

Magdalen  put  down  her  candle,  and  went  softly  to 
her,  holding  out  her  arms. 

Fay  raised  a  wild,  wan  face  out  of  her  hands  and 
said  harshly: 

"  Aren't  you  afraid  I  shall  push  you  away  again 
like  I  did  last  time?  " 

162 


PRISONERS  163 

Then  with  a  cry  she  threw  herself  into  the  out- 
stretched arms. 

Magdalen  held  the  little  creature  closely  to  her, 
trembling  almost  as  much  as  Fay. 

Outside  the  storm  broke,  and  beat  in  wild  tears 
against  the  pane.  Within,  another  storm  had  broken 
in  a  passion  of  tears. 

Fay  gasped  a  few  words  between  the  paroxysms  of 
sobbing. 

"  I  was  coming  to  you,  Magdalen, — I  was  trying  to 
come — and  I  couldn't — I  had  pushed  you  away  when 
you  came  before — and  I  thought  perhaps  you  would 
push  me  away — no — no — I  didn't,  but  I  said  to  my- 
self you  would.  I  hardened  myself  against  you.  But 
I  was  just  coming,  all  the  same  because — because," — 
Fay's  voice  went  thinner  and  thinner  into  a  strangled 
whimper,  "  because  I  can't  bear  it  alone  any  more." 

"  Tell  me  about  it." 

But  Fay  tore  herself  out  of  her  sister's  arms  and 
threw  herself  face  downwards  on  the  bed. 

"  I  can't,"  she  gasped.  "  I  must  and  I  can't.  I  must 
and  I  can't." 

Magdalen  remained  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  She  knew  that  the  breaking  moment  had  come 
and  she  waited. 

She  waited  a  long  time. 

The  storm  without  spent  itself  before  the  storm 
within  had  spent  itself. 

At  last  Fay  sat  up. 

Then  Magdalen  moved  quietly  to  the  dying  fire.  She 
put  on  some  coal,  she  blew  the  dim  embers  to  a  glow. 

Fay  watched  her. 


164  PRISONERS 

Magdalen  did  not  look  at  her.  She  sat  down  by  the 
fire,  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  upon  it. 

"  I  have  done  something  very  wicked,"  said  Fay  in 
a  hollow  voice  from  the  bed.  "  If  I  tell  you  all  about 
it  will  you  promise,  will  you  swear  to  me  that  you  will 
never  tell  anybody  ?  " 

"  I  promise,"  said  Magdalen  after  a  moment. 

"  Swear  it." 

"  I  swear." 

Fay  made  several  false  starts  and  then  said: 

"  I  was  very  unhappy  with  Andrea." 

Magdalen  became  perceptibly  paler  and  then  very 
red. 

"  He  never  cared  for  me,"  continued  Fay,  slipping 
off  the  bed,  and  kneeling  down  before  the  fire.  "  It's 
a  dreadful  thing  to  marry  a  man  who  does  not  really 
care.  I  sometimes  think  men  can't  care.  They  are  too 
selfish.  They  don't  know  what  love  is.  I  was  very 
young.  I  did  not  know  anything  about  life.  He  was 
kind,  but  he  never  understood  me." 

Magdalen's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  In  the  room  at 
the  end  of  the  passage  she  had  listened  to  her  mother's 
faint  voice  in  nights  of  wakeful  weakness  speaking  of 
her  unhappy  marriage.  Did  all  women  who  failed  to 
love  deep  enough  say  the  same  things?  And  as  Mag- 
dalen had  listened  in  silence  then  so  she  listened  in 
silence  now. 

"  He  did  not  trust  me.  And  then  I  had  no  children, 
and  he  was  dreadfully  disappointed.  And  he  kept 
things  to  himself.  There  was  no  real  confidence  be- 
tween us,  as  there  ought  to  be  between  husband  and 
wife,  those  whom  God  has  joined  together.  Andrea 


PRISONERS  165 

never  seemed  to  remember  that.  And  gradually  his 
conduct  had  its  natural  effect.  I  grew  not  to  care  for 
him,  and — he  brought  it  on  himself — I'm  not  excusing 
myself,  Magdalen — I  see  now  that  I  was  to  blame  too — 
I  ended  by  caring  for  someone  else — someone  who  did 
love  me,  who  always  had  since  we  were  boy  and  girl 
together." 

"Not  Michael!" 

"  Yes.  Michael.  And  when  he  came  out  to  Rome 
it  began  all  over  again.  It  never  would  have  done  if 
Andrea  had  been  a  good  husband.  I  did  my  best.  I 
tried  to  stave  it  off,  but  I  was  too  miserable  and  lonely 
and  I  cared  at  last.  And  he  was  madly  in  love  with  me. 
He  worshipped  me." 

Fay  paused.  She  was  looking  earnestly  into  her 
recollections.  She  was  so  far  withholding  nothing.  As 
she  knelt  before  the  fire  making  her  confession  Mag- 
dalen saw  that  according  to  her  lights  she  was  speak- 
ing the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth. 

"  Of  course  he  found  it  out  at  last  and — and  we 
agreed  to  part.  We  decided  that  he  must  leave  Rome. 
He  wished  to  see  me  once  to  say  good-bye.  Was  it 
very  wrong  of  me  to  let  him  come  once, — just  once?  " 

"  It  was  perhaps  natural.  And  after  Michael  had 
said  good-bye  why  did  not  he  leave  Rome?  " 

"  He  was  arrested  the  same  night,"  faltered  Fay. 
"  I  said  good-bye  to  him  in  the  garden,  and  then  the 
garden  was  surrounded  because  they  were  looking  for 
the  murderer  of  the  Marchese,  and  Michael  could  not 
get  out.  And  he  was  afraid  of  being  seen  for  fear 
of  compromising  me.  So  he  hid  behind  the  screen  in 
my  room.  And  then — you  know  the  rest — the  police 


166  PRISONERS 

came  in  and  searched  my  rooms,  and  Michael  came  out 
and  confessed  to  the  murder,  and  said  I  had  let  him  hide 
in  my  room.  It  was  the  only  thing  to  do  to  save  my 
reputation,  and  he  did  it." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"Nothing.  What  could  I  say?  Besides,  I  was  too 
faint  to  speak." 

"  And  later  on  when  you  were  not  too  faint  ?  " 

"  I  never  said  anything  later  on  either."  Fay's  voice 
had  become  almost  inaudible.  "  I  hoped  the  real  mur- 
derer would  confess." 

"  But  when  he  did  not  confess  ?  " 

"  I  have  always  clung  to  the  hope.  I  have  prayed 
day  and  night  that  he  might  still  confess.  Sinners  do 
repent  sometimes,  Magdalen." 

There  was  a  terrible  silence,  during  which  several 
fixtures  in  Magdalen's  mind  had  to  be  painfully  and 
swiftly  moved,  and  carefully  safeguarded  into  new 
positions.  Magdalen  became  very  white  in  the  process. 

At  last  she  said,  "  Did  Andrea  know  that  Michael 
was  innocent  of  the  murder  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  so  at  the  time,  but  just  before  he 
died  he  said  something  cruel  to  me  which  shewed  he  knew 
Michael's  innocence  for  certain,  had  known  it  from  the 
first." 

"  Then  if  he  knew  Michael  had  not  murdered  the 
Marchese,  how  do  you  suppose  he  accounted  for  his 
being  hidden  in  your  rooms  at  midnight,  after  he  had 
ostensibly  left  the  house?  " 

Fay  stared  at  her  sister  aghast. 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  said. 

"  What  can  Andrea  have  thought  of  that?  " 


PRISONERS  167 

"  Andrea  was  very  secretive,"  faltered  Fay.  "  You 
never  could  tell  what  he  was  thinking.  And  I  was  the 
last  person  he  ever  told  things  to.  Roman  Catholics 
are  like  that.  The  priest  knows  everything  instead  of 
the  wife." 

There  was  another  silence. 

Magdalen's  question  vaguely  alarmed  Fay.  Natures 
such  as  hers  if  given  time  will  unconsciously  whittle 
away  all  the  sinister  little  incidents  that  traverse  and 
render  untenable  the  position  in  which  they  have  taken 
refuge.  They  do  not  purposely  ignore  these  conflict- 
ing memories,  but  they  don't  know  what  has  weight  and 
what  has  not,  and  they  refuse  to  weigh  them  because 
they  cannot  weigh  anything.  Their  minds,  quickly  con- 
fused at  the  best  of  times,  instinctively  select  and  retain 
all  they  remember  that  upholds  their  own  view  of  the 
situation  and — discard  the  rest. 

Fay  could  not  answer  Magdalen's  trenchant  ques- 
tion. She  could  only  restate  her  own  view  of  her  hus- 
band's character. 

Magdalen  did  not  make  large  demands  on  the  truth- 
fulness of  others  if  they  had  very  little  of  it.  She  did 
not  repeat  her  question.  She  waited  a  moment,  and 
then  said: 

"  You  seem  to  think  that  Andrea  never  guessed  the 
attachment  between  yourself  and  Michael.  But  he  must 
have  done  so.  And  if  he  had  not  guessed  it  till  Michael 
was  found  in  your  rooms,  at  any  rate  he  knew  it  then 
— for  certain.  For  certain,  Fay.  Remember  that  is 
settled.  There  was  no  other  possible  explanation  of 
Michael's  presence  there,  if  you  bar  the  murder  explana- 
tion, which  is  barred  as  far  as  Andrea  is  concerned. 


168  PRISONERS 

Now  from  first  to  last  Andrea  retained  his  respect  for 
Michael  and  his  belief  in  your  innocence  in  circum- 
stances which  would  have  ruined  you  in  the  eyes  of 
most  husbands.  You  say  Andrea  did  not  understand 
you  or  do  you  justice.  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  to 
me  he  acted  towards  you  with  great  nobility  and  deli- 
cacy." 

Fay  was  vaguely  troubled.  Her  deep,  long-fostered 
dislike  of  her  husband  must  not  be  shaken  in  this  way. 
She  could  not  endure  to  have  any  fixtures  in  her  mind 
displaced.  So  much  depended  on  keeping  the  whole 
tightly  wedged  fabric  in  position. 

"  You  don't  know  what  cruel  words  he  said  to  me  on 
his  deathbed,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  call  it  nobility  and 
delicacy  never  to  give  me  the  least  hint  till  the  day  he 
died  that  he  knew  why  Michael  was  in  prison." 

"  Perhaps  he  hoped — hoped  against  hope — that " 

Magdalen  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  She  fixed  her 
eyes  on  Fay's.  A  great  love  shone  in  them,  and  a  great 
longing.  Then,  with  a  kind  of  withdrawal  into  her- 
self, she  went  on.  "  Andrea  was  loyal  to  you  to  the 
last.  He  went  away  without  a  word  to  anyone  except, 
it  seems,  to  you.  I  always  liked  him,  but  I  see  now 
that  I  never  did  him  justice.  I  did  not  know  with 
his  Italian  hereditary  distrust  of  woman's  honour  that 
he  could  have  risen  to  such  a  height  as  that.  Think  of 
it,  Fay.  What  grovelling  and  sordid  suspicions  he 
might  have  had  of  you,  must  inevitably  have  had  of  you 
and  Michael  if  he  had  not  followed  a  very  noble  instinct, 
that  of  entire  trust  in  you  both  in  the  face  of  over- 
whelming proof  to  the  contrary.  Dear  Fay,  the  proof 
was  overwhelming." 


PRISONERS  169 

Fay  was  silent. 

"  Just  as  we  all  believed  in  Michael's  innocence  of 
the  murder,  so  Andrea  believed  in  your  innocence  of  a 
crime  even  greater,  never  faltered  in  his  belief,  and 
went  to  his  grave  without  a  word  of  doubt.  Oh!  Fay, 
Fay,  do  you  suppose  there  are  many  men  like  that?  " 

And  Magdalen,  who  so  seldom  wept,  suddenly  burst 
into  tears.  Perhaps  the  thought  forced  itself  through 
her  mind,  "  If  only  once  long  ago  I  had  met  with  one 
little  shred  of  such  tender  faith ! " 

"  Andrea  was  better  than  I  thought,"  Fay  faltered. 
The  admission  made  her  uneasy.  She  wished  he  had  not 
been  better,  that  her  previous  view  of  him  had  not  been 
disturbed. 

Magdalen's  tears  passed  quickly.  She  glanced  again 
at  Fay  through  a  veil  of  them,  looking  earnestly  for 
something  she  did  not  find. 

"  And  Michael,"  she  went  on  gently.  "  Dear,  dear 
Michael.  He  gave  himself  for  you,  spent  in  one  mo- 
ment, not  counting  the  cost,  his  life,  his  future,  his 
good  name — for  your  sake.  And  he  goes  on  day  by 
day,  month  by  month,  year  in  year  out,  enduring  a 
living  death  without  a  word — for  your  sake.  How  long 
has  Michael  been  in  prison?  " 

"  Two  years."     Fay's  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 

"  Two  years !  Is  it  only  two  ?  To  him  it  must  seem 
like  a  hundred.  But  if  his  strength  remains  he  will  go 
on  for  thirteen  more.  Oh !  Fay,  was  any  man  since  the 
world  began  so  loyal  to  any  woman  as  your  husband 
and  your  lover  have  been  to  you?  You  said  just  now 
that  men  were  selfish  and  could  not  love.  I  have  heard 
many  women  say  the  same.  But  you!  How  can  you 


170  PRISONERS 

say  such  a  thing !  To  have  met  one  man  who  was  ready 
to  love  and  serve  them  is  not  the  lot  of  many  women. 
IVery  few  of  us  ever  find  anything  more  than  a  craving 
to  be  loved  in  the  stubborn  material  of  men's  hearts. 
And  we  are  thankful  enough  when  we  find  that.  But  to 
have  stood  between  two  such  men  who  must  have 
crushed  you  between  them  if  either  of  them  had  had 
one  dishonouring  thought  of  you.  A  momentary  self- 
ishness, a  momentary  jealousy  in  either  of  them,  and — 
where  would  you  have  been?  " 

"  No  one  knows  how  good  Michael  is  better  than  I 
do,"  said  Fay,  "  but  what  you  don't  seem  to  realise  is 
how  awful  these  years  have  been  for  me.  He  has  suf- 
fered, but  sometimes  I  think  I  have  suffered  more  than 
he  has.  No,  I  don't  think  it,  I  know  it.  He  can't  have 
suffered  as  much  as  I  have." 

Magdalen  put  out  her  hand,  and  touched  Fay's  rough 
head  with  a  tenderness  that  seemed  new  even  to  Fay, 
to  whom  she  had  been  always  tender. 

"  You  have  suffered  more  than  Michael,"  she  said. 
*'  I  have  endured  certain  things  in  my  life,  but  I  could 
never  have  endured  as  you  have  done  the  loss  of  my 
peace  of  mind.  How  have  you  lived  through  these 
two  years?  What  days  and  nights  upon  the  rack  it 
must  have  meant !  " 

Oh!  the  relief  of  those  words.  Fay  leaned  her  head 
against  her  sister's  knee,  and  poured  forth  the  endless 
story  of  her  agony.  She  had  someone  to  confide  in 
at  last,  and  the  person  she  loved  best,  at  least  whom  she 
loved  a  little.  She  who  had  never  borne  a  mosquito  bite 
in  silence,  but  had  always  shewn  it  to  the  first  person 
she  met,  after  rubbing  it  to  a  more  prominent  red,  with 


PRISONERS  171 

a  plaintive  appeal  for  sympathy,  was  now  able  to  tell 
her  sister  everything. 

The  recital  took  hours.  A  few  minutes  had  been 
enough  on  the  subject  of  the  duke  and  Michael,  but 
when  Fay  came  to  dilate  on  her  own  sufferings,  when 
the  autobiographical  flood-gates  were  opened,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  rush  of  confidences  would  never  cease.  Mag- 
dalen listened  hour  by  hour.  Is  it  given  even  to  the 
wisest  of  us  ever  to  speak  a  true  word  about  ourselves? 
Do  our  whispered  or  published  autobiographies  ever 
deceive  anyone  except  ourselves?  We  alone  seem  un- 
able to  read  between  the  lines  of  our  self-revelations. 
We  alone  seem  unable  to  perceive  that  sinister  ghost- 
like figure  of  ourselves  which  we  have  unconsciously 
conjured  up  from  our  pages  for  all  to  see;  the  cruelly 
faithful  reflection  of  one  whom  we  have  never  known. 
Those  who  love  us  and  have  kept  so  tenderly  for  years 
the  secret  of  our  egotism  or  our  false  humility  or  our 
meanness,  how  can  they  endure  to  hear  us  unconsciously 
proclaim  to  the  world  what  only  Love  may  safely  know 
concerning  us? 

Magdalen  heard,  till  her  heart  ached  to  hear  them,  all 
the  endless  bolstered-up  reasons  why  Fay  was  not  re- 
sponsible for  Michael's  fate.  She  heard  all  about  the 
real  murderer  not  confessing.  She  heard  much  that 
Fay  would  have  died  rather  than  admit.  Gradually  she 
realised  that  it  was  misery  that  had  driven  Fay  to  a 
partial  confession,  not  as  yet  repentance,  not  the  desire 
to  save  Michael.  Misery  starves  us  out  of  our  prisons 
sometimes,  tortures  us  into  opening  the  doors  of  our 
cells  bolted  from  within,  but  as  a  rule  we  make  a  long 
weary  business  of  leaving  our  cells  when  only  misery 


172  PRISONERS 

urges  us  forth.  I  think  that  Magdalen's  heart  must 
have  sunk  many  times,  but  whenever  Fay  looked  up  she 
met  the  same  tender,  benignant  look  bent  down  upon 
her. 

"  Oh!  why  didn't  I  tell  you  before?  "  she  said  at  last. 
"  I  always  wanted  to,  but  I  thought — at  least  I  felt — 
I  see  I  did  you  an  injustice — I  thought  you  might  press 
me  to — to " 

"  To  confess"  said  Magdalen,  her  low  voice  piercing 
to  Fay's  very  soul. 

"  Y-yes,  at  least  to  say  something  to  a  policeman  or 
someone,  so  that  Michael  might  be  let  out.  I  was  afraid 
if  I  told  you  you  would  never  give  me  any  peace  till 
Michael  was  released." 

"  Have  you  had  any  peace  since  he  was  put  into 
prison  ?  " 

Fay  shook  her  head. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy,  Fay,  I  shall  never  urge  you 
to  " — Magdalen  hesitated — "  to  go  against  your  con- 
science." 

"  What  would  you  have  done  in  my  place  ?  "  said  Fay 
hastily. 

*'  I  should  have  had  to  speak." 
'  You  are  better  than  me,  Magdalen,  more  religious. 
You  always  have  been." 

"  I  should  have  had  to  speak,  not  because  I  am  better 
or  worse  than  you,  but  simply  because  I  could  not  have 
endured  the  misery  of  silence.  It  would  have  broken 
me  in  two.  And  if  I  had  not  had  the  courage  to  speak 
in  Andrea's  lifetime,  I  would  have  spoken  directly  he 
was  dead,  and  have  released  Michael  and  married  him. 
You  have  not  told  me  why  you  did  not  do  that." 


PRISONERS  173 

"  I  never  thought  of  it.  I  somehow  regarded  It  as  all 
finished.  And  I  have  never  even  thought  of  marrying 
Michael  or  anyone  when  I  was  left  a  widow.  I  was  much 
too  miserable.  I  had  had  enough  of  being  married." 

There  was  a  difficult  silence. 

"  I  should  never  have  a  moment's  peace  if — if  I  did 
speak,"  said  Fay  at  last. 

"  Yes,  you  would,"  said  Magdalen  with  sudden  in- 
tensity. "  That  is  where  peace  lies." 

Fay  raised  herself  to  her  knees  and  looked  into  Mag- 
dalen's eyes.  The  dawn  had  come  up  long  ago,  and  in 
its  austere  light  Magdalen's  face  showed  very  sharp 
and  white  in  a  certain  tender  fixity  and  compassion. 
She  had  seen  that  look  once  before  in  her  husband's 
dying  eyes.  Now  that  she  was  suddenly  brought  face 
to  face  with  it  again  she  understood  it  for  the  first  time. 
Had  not  Andrea's  last  prayer  been  that  she  might  be 
given  peace! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

There  is  no  wild  wind  in  his  soul, 

No  strength  of  flood  or  fire ; 
He  knows  no  force  beyond  control, 

He  feels  no  deep  desire. 

He  knows  no  altitudes  above, 

No  passions  elevate; 
All  is  but  mockery  of  love, 

And  mimicry  of  hate. 

— EDGAR  VINE   HALL. 

THE  morning  after  the  storm  Wentworth  was  sitting  in 
the  library  at  Barford,  looking  out  across  the  garden 
to  the  down.  Behind  the  down  lay  Priesthope,  where 
Fay  was. 

He  was  thinking  of  her.  This  shewed  a  frightful 
lapse  in  his  regulated  existence.  So  far  he  had  allowed 
the  remembrance  of  Fay  to  invade  him  only  in  the  even- 
ings over  his  cigarette,  or  when  he  was  pacing  amid  his 
purph'ng  beeches. 

Was  she  now  actually  beginning  to  invade  his  morn- 
ings, those  mornings  sacred  to  the  history  of  Sussex? 
No!  No!  Dismiss  the  extravagant  surmise.  Went- 
worth was  far  more  interested  in  his  attitude  towards 
a  thing  or  person — in  what  he  called  his  point  of  view — 
than  in  the  thing  viewed. 

He  was  distinctly  attracted  by  Fay,  but  he  was  more 
occupied  with  his  feelings  about  her  than  with  herself. 
It  was  these  which  were  now  engrossing  him. 

174 


PRISONERS  175 

For  some  time  past  he  had  been  working  under- 
ground— digging  out  the  foundations — and  as  a  rule 
invisible  as  a  mole  within  them — of  a  tedious  courtship 
undertaken  under  the  sustaining  conviction  that  mar- 
riage is  much  more  important  to  a  woman  than  to  a 
man.  This  point  of  view  was  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
for  Wentworth,  like  many  other  eligible,  suspiciously 
diffident  men,  had  so  far  come  into  contact  mainly  with 
that  large  battalion  of  women  who  forage  for  them- 
selves, and  who  take  upon  themselves  with  assiduity  the 
work  of  acquaintanceship  and  courtship.  He  had  never 
quite  liked  their  attentions  or  been  deceived  by  their 
"  chance  meetings."  But  his  conclusions  respecting 
the  whole  sex  had  been  formed  by  the  conduct  of  the 
female  skirmishers  who  had  thrown  themselves  across 
his  path ;  and  he,  in  common  with  many  other  secluded 
masculine  violets,  innocently  supposed  that  he  was  irre- 
sistible to  the  other  sex ;  and  that  when  he  met  the  right 
woman  she  would  set  to  work  like  the  others,  only  with 
a  little  more  tact,  and  the  marriage  would  be  conven- 
iently arrived  at. 

But  Fay  shewed  no  signs  of  setting  to  work,  no  alac- 
rity, no  apparent  grasp  of  the  situation :  I  mean  of  the 
possible  but  by  no  means  certain  turn  which  affairs 
might  one  day  take. 

At  first  Wentworth  was  incredulous,  but  he  remem- 
bered in  time  that  one  of  the  tactics  of  women  is  to 
retreat  in  order  to  lure  on  a  further  masculine  advance. 
Then  he  became  offended,  stiff  with  injured  dignity,  al- 
most anxious.  But  he  communed  with  himself,  analysed 
his  feelings  under  various  headings,  and  discovered  that 
he  was  not  discouraged.  He  was  aware — at  least,  he 


176  PRISONERS 

told  himself  that  he  was  aware — that  extraordinary 
efforts  must  be  made  in  love  affairs.  I  don't  know  how 
he  reconciled  that  startling  theory  with  his  other  tenets, 
but  he  did.  The  chance  suggestions  of  his  momentary 
moods  he  regarded  as  convictions,  and  adopted  them 
one  day  and  disowned  them  the  next  with  much  na'if 
dignity,  and  offended  astonishment,  if  the  Bishop  or 
some  other  old  friend  actually  hinted  at  a  discrepancy 
between  diametrically  opposed  but  earnestly  expounded 
views.  He  imagined  that  he  was  now  grappling  with 
the  difficulties  inherent  to  love  in  their  severest  form. 
It  was  of  estrangements  like  these  that  poets  sang.  He 
opened  his  Browning  and  found  he  was  on  the  right 
road,  passing  the  proper  milestones  at  the  correct  mo- 
ment. He  was  sustained  in  his  idleness  this  morning  by 
the  comfortable  realisation  that  he  was  falling  desper- 
ately in  love.  He  shook  his  head  at  himself  and  smiled. 
He  was  not  ill  pleased  with  himself.  He  would  return  to 
a  perfectly  regulated  life  later  on.  In  the  meanwhile 
he  would  give  a  free  rein  to  these  ecstatic  moods,  these 
wild  emotions.  When  he  had  given  a  free  rein  to  them 
they  ambled  round  a  little  paddock,  and  brought  him 
back  to  his  own  front  door.  It  was  delicious.  He  had 
thoughts  of  chronicling  the  expedition  in  verse. 

I  fear  we  cannot  escape  the  conclusion  that  Went- 
worth  was  on  the  verge  of  being  a  prig.  But  he  was 
held  back  as  it  were  by  the  coat-tails  from  the  abyss  by 
a  certain  naivete  and  uprightness  of  character.  The 
Bishop  once  said  of  him  that  he  was  so  impressed  with 
the  fact  that  dolls  were  stuffed  with  sawdust  that  it 
was  impossible  not  to  be  fond  of  him. 

Wentworth  in  spite  of  his  sweeping  emotions  was  still 


PRISONERS  177 

unconsciously  meditating  a  possible  retreat  as  regards 
Fay,  was  still  glancing  furtively  over  his  shoulder. 
Strange  how  that  involuntary,  self-protective  attitude 
on  a  man's  part  is  never  lost  on  a  woman,  however  dense 
she  may  otherwise  be,  almost  always  ends  by  ruining 
him  with  her.  Others  besides  Lot's  wife  have  become 
petrified  by  looking  back. 

Fay,  he  reflected,  must  make  it  perfectly  clear  to  him 
that  if  he  did  propose  he  would  be  accepted — she  in 
short  must  commit  herself — and  then — after  all  a  bach- 
elor's life  had  great  charm.  But  still — at  any  rate  he 
might  come  back  from  Lostford  this  afternoon  by  way 
of  Pilgrim  Road.  That  would  tie  him  to  nothing. 
She  often  walked  there.  It  would  be  an  entirely  chance 
meeting.  Wentworth  had  frequently  used  this  "  short 
cut "  of  late  which  did  not  add  more  than  two  miles  to 
the  length  of  his  return  journey  from  Lostford. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  he  rode  slowly 
down  Pilgrim  Road  feeling  like  a  Cavalier.  There  was 
no  hurry.  The  earth  was  breathing  again  after  the 
storm.  Everything  was  resting,  and  waking  in  the 
vivid  March  sunshine.  As  he  rode  at  a  foot's  pace 
along  the  mossy  track  dappled  with  anemones,  as  he 
noted  the  thin  powder  of  green  on  the  boles  of  the  beech 
trees,  and  the  intense  blue  through  the  rosy  haze  of 
myriad  twigs,  the  slight  hunger  of  his  heart  increased 
upon  him.  There  was  a  whisper  in  the  air  which 
stirred  him  vaguely  in  spite  of  himself. 

At  that  instant  he  caught  sight  of  a  slight  black 
figure  sitting  on  a  fallen  tree  near  the  track. 

For  one  moment  the  Old  Adam  in  him  actually  sug- 
gested that  he  should  ride  past,  just  taking  off  his  hat. 


178  PRISONERS 

But  he  had  ridden  past  in  life,  just  taking  off  his  hat, 
so  often  that  the  action  lacked  novelty.  He  almost  did 
it  yet  again  from  sheer  force  of  habit.  Then  he  dis- 
mounted and  walked  up  to  Fay,  bridle  in  hand. 

"  What  good  fortune  to  meet  you,"  he  said.  "  I  so 
seldom  come  this  way." 

This  may  have  been  the  truth  in  some  higher,  rarer 
sense  than  its  obvious  meaning,  for  Wentworth  was  a 
perfectly  veracious  person.  Yet  anyone  who  had  seen 
him  during  the  last  few  weeks  constantly  riding  at  a 
foot's  pace  down  this  particular  glade,  looking  care- 
fully to  right  and  left,  would  hardly  have  felt  that  his 
remark  dovetailed  in  with  the  actual  facts.  The  moral 
is — morals  cluster  like  bees  round  certain  individuals — 
that  we  must  not  ponder  too  deeply  the  meanings  of 
men  like  Wentworth. 

"  I  often  used  to  come  here,"  said  Fay,  "  but  not  of 
late.  I  came  to  get  some  palm." 

She  had  in  her  bare  hand  a  little  bunch  of  palm,  the 
soft  woolly  buds  on  them  covered  with  yellow  dust.  She 
held  them  towards  Wentworth,  and  he  looked  at  them 
with  grave  attention. 

The  cob,  a  privileged  person,  of  urbane  and  dis- 
tinguished manners,  suddenly  elongated  towards  them 
a  mobile  upper  lip,  his  sleek  head  slightly  on  one  side, 
his  kind,  sly  eyes  half  shut. 

"  Conrad,"  said  Wentworth,  "  we  never  ask.  We 
only  take  what  is  given  us." 

Fay  laughed,  and  gave  them  both  a  twig. 

Wentworth  drew  his  through  his  buttonhole.  Con- 
rad twisted  his  in  his  strong  yellow  teeth,  turned  it 
over,  and  then  spat  it  out.  The  action,  though  of 


PRISONERS  179 

doubtful  taste  in  itself,  was  ennobled  by  his  perfect 
rendering  of  it.  He  brought  it,  so  to  speak,  forever 
within  the  sphere  of  exquisite  manners. 

Wentworth  led  him  back  to  the  path,  tied  him  to  a 
tree,  and  then  came  back  and  sat  down  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  Fay  on  the  same  trunk.  He  had  somehow 
nothing  to  say,  but  of  course  he  should  think  of  some- 
thing striking  directly.  One  of  Fay's  charms  was  that 
she  did  not  talk  much. 

A  young  couple  close  at  hand  were  not  hampered 
by  any  doubts  as  to  a  choice  of  subject. 

From  among  the  roots  of  a  clump  of  alder  rose  a 
sweet  little  noise  of  mouse  talk,  intermittent,  affaire, 
accompanied  by  sudden  rustlings  and  dartings  under 
dead  leaves,  momentary  glimpses  of  a  tiny  brown  bride 
and  bridegroom.  Ah!  wedded  bliss!  Ah!  youth  and 
sunshine,  and  the  joy  of  life  in  a  new  soft  silken 
coat! 

Fay  and  Wentworth  watched  and  listened,  smiling  at 
each  other  from  time  to  time. 

"  I  am  forced  to  the  conclusion,"  said  Wentworth 
at  last,  "  that  even  in  these  early  days  Mrs.  Mouse  does 
not  listen  to  all  Mr.  Mouse  says." 

"  How  could  she,  poor  thing,  when  he  never  leaves  off 
talking?  " 

"  Well,  neither  does  she.  They  both  talk  at  once.  I 
suppose  they  have  not  our  morbid  craving  for  a  lis- 
tener." 

"  Do  you  think — I  mean  really  and  truly — that  they 
are  talking  about  themselves?  "  said  Fay,  looking  at 
Wentworth  as  if  any  announcement  of  his  on  the  subject 
would  be  considered  final. 


180  PRISONERS 

"  No  doubt,"  he  said  indulgently,  willing  to  humour 
her,  and  feeling  more  like  a  cavalier  than  ever. 

Then  he  actually  noticed  how  pale  she  was. 

"  You  look  tired,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  the  storm 
last  night  kept  you  awake." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  hung  her  head. 

Wentworth,  momentarily  released  from  his  point  of 
view,  looked  at  her  more  closely,  and  perceived  that  her 
lowered  eyelids  were  heavy  with  recent  tears.  And  as 
he  looked,  he  realised,  by  some  other  means  than  those  of 
reasoning  and  deduction,  by  some  mysterious  intuitive 
feeling  new  to  him,  that  all  these  weeks  when  he  had 
imagined  she  was  drawing  him  on  by  feminine  arts  of 
simulated  indifference  she  had  in  reality  been  thinking 
but  little  of  him  because  she  was  in  trouble.  The  elab- 
orate edifices  which  he  had  raised  in  solitude  to  account 
for  this  arid  that  in  her  words  one  day,  in  her  attitude 
towards  him  another  day,  toppled  over,  and  he  saw 
before  him  a  simple  creature,  who  for  some  unknown  and 
probably  foolish  reason,  had  cried  all  night. 

He  perceived  suddenly,  without  possibility  of  doubt, 
that  she  had  never  considered  him  in  the  light  of  a 
lover,  had  never  thought  seriously  about  him  at  all,  and 
that  what  he  had  taken  to  be  an  experienced  woman  of 
the  world  was  in  reality  an  ignorant  child  at  heart. 

He  felt  vaguely  relieved.  There  were  evidently  no 
ambushes,  no  surprises,  no  pitfalls  in  this  exquisite 
nature.  There  was  really  nothing  to  withdraw  from. 
He  suddenly  experienced  a  strong  desire  to  go  forward, 
a  more  imperative  desire  than  he  had  ever  known  about 
anything  before.  Even  as  he  was  conscious  of  it  Fay 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  and  it  passed  away  again,  leaving 


PRISONERS  181 

a  great  tranquillity  behind,  together  with  a  mounting 
sense  of  personal  power. 

If  Fay  had  spoken  to  him  he  had  not  heard  what  she 
had  said.  But  he  did  not  mind  having  missed  it.  The 
meaning  of  the  spring  was  reaching  him  through  her 
presence  like  music  through  a  reed.  He  had  never 
understood  it  till  now.  Poor  empty  little  reed!  Poor 
entranced  listener  mistaking  the  reed  for  music ! 

Can  it  be  that  when  God  made  His  pretty  world  He 
had  certain  things  exceeding  sharp  and  sweet  to  say  to 
us,  which  it  is  His  will  only  to  whisper  to  us  through 
human  reeds .  the  frail  human  reeds  on  which  we  some- 
times deafly  lean  until  they  break  and  pierce  our  cruel 
hands  ? 

The  mystery  of  the  spring  was  becoming  clear  and 
clearer.  What  Wentworth  had  believed  hitherto  to  be 
a  deceptive  voice  was  nothing  but  a  reiterated  faithful 
prophecy,  a  tender  warning  to  him  so  that  he  might  be 
ready  when  the  time  came. 

"  The  primroses  will  soon  be  out,"  he  said  as  if  it 
were  a  secret. 

"  Very  soon,"  she  said,  though  they  were  out  already. 
Fay  always  assented  to  what  was  said. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  she  said,  getting  up.  "  I  have 
walked  too  far.  If  I  sit  here  any  longer  I  shall  never 
get  home  at  all." 

"  Let  me  take  you  home  on  Conrad." 

Fay  hesitated. 

"  I  am  frightened  of  horses." 

"  But  not  of  Conrad.  He  is  only  an  armchair  stuffed 
to  look  like  a  horse.  And  I  will  lead  him." 

Fay  still  hesitated. 


182  PRISONERS 

He  took  an  authoritative  tone.  He  must  insist  on 
her  riding  home.  She  was  tired  already,  and  it  was  a 
long  mile  up  hill  to  Priesthope. 

Fay  acquiesced.  To-day  of  all  days  she  was  not  in 
a  condition  for  anything  but  a  dazed  acceptance  of 
events  as  they  came. 

Wentworth  lifted  her  gently  onto  the  saddle,  and  put 
one  small  dangling  foot  into  a  stirrup  shortened  to 
meet  it. 

She  was  alarmed  and  clutched  Conrad's  mane,  but 
gradually  her  timidity  was  reassured,  and  they  set  out 
slowly  together,  Wentworth  walking  beside  her,  with  his 
hand  on  the  rein. 

The  little  bunch  of  palm  was  forgotten.  It  had  done 
its  part. 

Wentworth  talked  and  Fay  listened,  or  seemed  to 
listen.  Her  mind  wandered  if  Conrad  pricked  his  ears, 
but  he  did  not  prick  them  very  often. 

Wentworth  felt  that  it  was  time  Fay  made  more 
acquaintance  with  his  mind,  and  he  proceeded  without 
haste,  but  without  undue  delay  to  indicate  to  her  por- 
tions of  his  own  attitude  towards  life,  his  point  of  view 
on  various  subjects.  All  the  sentiments  which  must  in- 
fallibly have  lowered  him  in  the  eyes  of  a  shrewder 
woman  he  spread  before  her  with  childish  confidence. 
He  gave  her  of  his  best.  He  expressed  a  hope  that  he 
did  not  abuse  for  his  own  selfish  gratification  his  power 
of  entering  swiftly  into  intimacy  with  his  fellow  crea- 
tures. He  alluded  to  his  own  freedom  from  ambition, 
his  devotion — unlike  other  men — to  the  small  things  of 
life,  love,  friendship,  etc.:  we  know  the  rest.  Went- 
worth had  been  struck  by  that  sentence  when  he  first 


PRISONERS  183 

said  it  to  the  Bishop,  and  he  repeated  it  now.  Fay 
thought  it  very  beautiful.  She  proved  a  more  sympa- 
thetic listener  than  the  Bishop. 

I  don't  know  whether  like  Mrs.  Mouse  she  did  not 
listen  to  all  Mr.  Mouse  said.  But  at  any  rate  she 
noticed  for  the  first  time  how  lightly  Wentworth  walked, 
how  square  his  shoulders  were,  and  the  beauty  of  his 
brown  thin  hand  upon  the  bridle ;  and  through  her  mind 
a  little  streak  of  vanity  came  back  to  the  surface,  mo- 
mentarily buried  under  the  debris  of  last  night's  emo- 
tion. Wentworth  was  interested  in  her.  He  admired 
her.  He  did  not  know  anything  uncomfortable  about 
her — as  Magdalen  did.  He  thought  a  great  deal  of 
her.  It  was  nice  to  be  with  a  person  who  thought 
highly  of  one.  It  had  been  a  relief  to  meet  him. 
How  well  he  talked!  What  a  wide-minded,  generous 
man! 

The  gate  into  the  gardens  must  have  been  hurrying 
towards  them,  it  was  reached  so  soon.  Wentworth, 
after  a  momentary  surprise  at  beholding  it,  stopped  the 
cob,  and  helped  Fay  with  extreme  care  to  the  ground. 
One  of  Fay's  attractions  was  her  appearance  of  great 
fragility.  Men  felt  instinctively  that  with  the  least 
careless  usage  she  might  break  in  two.  She  must  be 
protected,  cheered,  have  everything  made  smooth  for 
her.  She  was  in  reality  much  stronger  than  many  of 
her  taller,  more  robust-looking  sisters,  who,  whether 
wives  or  spinsters,  if  they  required  assistance,  had  to 
look  for  it  in  quinine.  An  uneasy  jealousy  of  Fay  led 
Lady  Blore  frequently  to  point  out  that  Fay  was  always 
well  enough  to  do  what  she  wanted.  Aunt  Mary's  own 
Roman  nose  and  stalwart  figure  warded  off  from  her 


184  PRISONERS 

the  sympathy  to  which  her  severe  cramps  undoubtedly 
entitled  her. 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again  ?  "  said  Wentworth, 
suddenly  realising  that  the  good  hour  was  over. 

Fay  did  not  answer.  She  was  confused.  A  very 
delicate  colour  flew  to  her  cheek. 

Wentworth,  reddening  under  his  tan,  said :  "  Perhaps 
Pilgrim  Road  is  a  favourite  walk  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes.    I  often  go  there  in  the  afternoon." 

"  I  have  to  pass  that  way,  too,  most  days,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  a  short  cut  to  Lostf  ord." 

He  had  forgotten  that  an  hour  before  he  had  an- 
nounced that  he  seldom  used  that  particular  path.  It 
did  not  matter,  for  Fay  had  not  noticed  the  contradic- 
tion any  more  than  he  did.  Fay  was  easy  to  get  on 
with  because  she  never  compared  what  anyone  said  one 
day  with  what  they  said  the  next.  She  never  would  feel 
the  doubts,  the  perplexities  that  keener  minds  had  had 
to  fight  against  in  dealing  with  him. 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  at  his  receding  figure 
with  a  sense  of  regret  and  loss. 

Magdalen  was  in  the  house  waiting  to  give  her  her 
tea,  dear  Magdalen  who  was  so  good,  and  so  safe,  such 
a  comforter — but  who  knew.  Fay  shrank  back  instinc- 
tively as  she  neared  the  house,  and  then  crept  upstairs 
to  her  own  room,  and  had  tea  there. 

Wentworth  rode  home  feeling  younger  that  he  had 
done  for  years.  What  is  thirty-nine?  No  age  for  a  thin 
man.  (He  was  in  reality  nearly  forty-one.)  He  was 
pleased  with  himself.  How  quaintly  amusing  he  had 
been  about  the  mouse.  He  regretted,  not  for  the  first 


'*  FAY   NOTICED    FOR    THE    FIRST   TIME    HOW    LIGHTLY    WENTWORTH 
WALKED,  HOW  SQUARE  HIS  SHOULDERS  WERE  " 


PRISONERS  185 

time,  that  he  did  not  write  novels,  for  little  incidents 
like  that,  which  the  conventional  mind  of  the  ordinary 
novelist  was  incapable  of  perceiving,  would  intertwine 
charmingly  with  a  love  scene.  The  small  service  he 
had  rendered  Fay  linked  itself  to  a  wish  to  do  some- 
thing more  for  her — he  did  not  know  exactly  what — but 
something  larger  than  to-day.  Any  fool,  any  bucolic 
squireen,  could  have  given  her  a  lift  home  on  a  cob. 
He  would  like  to  do  something  which  another  person 
could  not  do,  something  which  would  cheer  her,  console 
her,  and  at  the  same  time  place  him  in  a  magnanimous 
light. 

We  all  long  for  an  opportunity  to  act  with  gener- 
osity and  tenderness  to  the  one  we  love.  We  need  not 
trouble  ourselves  to  seek  for  such  an  occasion,  for 
though  many  things  fail  us  in  this  life  the  opportunity 
so  to  act  has  never  yet  failed  to  arrive,  and  has  never 
arrived  alone,  always  hand  in  hand  with  some  prosaic 
hideously  difficult  circumstance,  which,  if  we  are  of  an 
artistic  temperament,  may  appear  to  us  too  ugly. 

Wentworth  had  never  wished  to  do  anything  for  the 
gay  little  lady  who,  a  few  years  ago,  had  crossed  his 
path.  The  principal  subject  of  his  cogitations  about 
her  had  been  whether  she  would  be  able  to  adapt  her- 
self to  him  and  his  habits,  to  understand  his  many- 
sided  wayward  nature,  and  to  add  permanently  to  his 
happiness ;  or  whether,  on  the  contrary,  she  might  not 
prove  a  bar  to  his  love  of  solitude,  a  drag  on  his  soar- 
ing spirit.  So  I  think  we  may  safely  conclude  that  his 
feelings  for  her  had  not  gone  to  breakneck  length.  But 
the  germ  in  his  mind  of  compassionate  protection  and 
instinctive  desire  to  help  Fay  had  in  it  the  possibility 


186  PRISONERS 

of  growth,  of  some  expansion.  And  what  other  feeling 
in  Wentworth's  clean,  well-regulated,  sterilized  mind 
had  shown  any  power  of  growth  ? 

The  worst  of  growth  is  that  a  small  acorn  does  not 
grow  into  a  large  acorn  as  logical  persons  expect.  It 
ought  to,  but  it  does  not.  It  grows  instead  into  some- 
thing quite  unrecognisable  from  its  small  beginnings, 
something  for  which,  perhaps,  beyond  a  certain  stage, 
there  is  no  room, — not  even  a  manger. 

Those  who  love  must  discard  much.  Wentworth  had 
not  yet  felt  the  need  of  discarding  anything,  and  he  had 
not  the  smallest  intention  of  doing  so.  He  intended 
instead  to  make  a  small  ornamental  addition,  a  sort  of 
portico,  to  his  life.  His  mind  had  got  itself  made  up 
this  afternoon,  and  he  contemplated  the  proposed  addi- 
tion with  some  complacency  as  already  made. 

There  is,  I  believe,  a  method  of  planting  an  acorn  in 
a  bottle,  productive  of  the  happiest  results — for  those 
who  love  small  results.  You  only  give  the  acorn  a  little 
water  every  day, — no  soil  of  course.  The  poor  thing 
will  push  up  a  thin  twig  of  stem  through  the  bottle  neck, 
and  in  time  will  unfold  a  few  real  oak  leaves.  Men  like 
Wentworth  would  always  prefer  the  acorn  to  remain  an 
acorn,  but  if  it  shews  signs  of  growth,  some  of  them  are 
wise  enough,  take  alarm  early  enough,  to  squeeze  it 
quickly  down  a  bottle  neck  before  it  has  expanded  too 
much  to  resist  the  passage. 

Had  Fate  in  store  for  Wentworth  a  kinder,  sterner 
destiny  than  that,  or  would  she  allow  him  to  stultify 
himself,  to  mutilate  to  his  own  convenience  a  great 
possibility? 


CHAPTER  XX 

Look  through  a  keyhole,  and  your  eye  will  be  sore. 

DURING  the  weeks  which  followed  Fay's  confession  Mag- 
dalen became  aware  that  she  watched  her,  and  aware 
also  that  she  avoided  her,  was  never  alone  with  her  if 
she  could  help  it. 

At  this  time  Fay  began  to  do  many  small  kindnesses, 
and  to  talk  much  of  the  importance  of  work  for  others, 
of  the  duty  of  taking  an  interest  in  our  fellow  creatures. 
This  was  a  new  departure.  She  had  not  so  far  evinced 
the  faintest  interest  in  the  dull  routine  of  home  duties 
which  are  of  the  nature  of  kindnesses,  and  had  often 
reproached  Magdalen  for  spending  herself  in  them. 
To  play  halma  with  zest  all  the  evening  with  a  parent 
who  must  always  win,  to  read  the  papers  to  him  by  the 
hour,  not  while  he  listened,  but  while  he  slept — Fay 
scorned  these  humble  efforts  of  Magdalen's.  She 
shewed  no  disposition  to  emulate  them ;  but  she  did  shew 
a  feverish  tendency  towards  isolated  acts  of  benevo- 
lence outside  the  home  life,  which  precluded  any  claim 
upon  her  by  arousing  a  hope  of  their  continuance, 
which  tied  her  to  nothing.  Fay  began  to  send  boxes  of 
primroses  to  hospitals,  to  knit  stockings  for  orphans, 
to  fatigue  herself  with  enormous  walks  over  the  downs 
with  illustrated  papers  for  the  Saundersfoot  work- 
house. 

It  was  inevitable  at  this  juncture  that  she  should  feel 

187 


188  PRISONERS 

some  shocked  surprise  at  the  supineness  of  those  around 
her.  Her  altruistic  efforts  were  practically  single- 
handed.  She  had  hoped  that  when  she  inaugurated 
them,  Magdalen  at  any  rate  would  have  followed  suit, 
would  have  worked  cheerfully  under  her  direction.  But 
Magdalen,  whose  serene  cheerfulness  had  flagged  of 
late,  fell  painfully  below  her  sister's  expectation.  Fay 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  more  lack  of  im- 
agination than  callousness  on  her  sister's  part  which 
held  her  back. 

Many  careworn  souls  besides  Fay  have  discovered 
that  the  irritable  exhaustion,  the  continual  ache  of 
egotism  can  be  temporarily  relieved  by  taking  an  in- 
expensive interest  in  others.  The  remedy  is  cheap  and 
efficacious,  and  it  is  a  patent.  Like  Elliman  applied 
to  a  rheumatic  shoulder  it  really  does  do  good — I  mean 
to  the  owner  of  the  shoulder.  And  you  can  stop  rub- 
bing the  moment  you  are  relieved.  Perhaps  these 
external  remedies  are  indispensable  to  the  comfort  of 
those  who  dwell  by  choice,  like  Fay,  in  low-lying 
swampy  districts,  and  have  no  thought  of  moving  to 
higher  ground. 

Magdalen  knew  these  signs,  and  sometimes  her  heart 
sank. 

Was  Fay  unconsciously  turning  aside  to  busy  her- 
self over  little  things  that  were  not  required  of  her,  in 
order  to  shut  her  eyes  to  the  one  thing  needful — a 
great  act  of  reparation? 

If  Fay  was  watching  Magdalen,  someone  else  was 
watching  Fay.  Bessie's  round,  hard,  staring  eyes 
were  upon  her,  and  if  Bessie  did  anything  she  did  it 
to  some  purpose. 


PRISONERS  189 

One  afternoon  in  the  middle  of  April  Bessie  came 
into  Magdalen's  sitting  room  and  sat  down  with  an  air 
of  concentration. 

*'  I  have  reason  to  be  deeply  ashamed  of  myself," 
she  said.  "  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  If  I  tell  you 
about  it  it  is  not  in  order  that  you  may  weakly  condone 
and  gloss  over  my  conduct." 

Magdalen  reflected  that  Bessie  had  inherited  her 
father's  graceful  way  of  approaching  a  difficulty  by 
finding  a  preliminary  fault  in  his  listener. 

Bessie  shut  her  handsome  mouth  firmly  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  opened  it  with  determination. 

"  I  thought  that  whatever  faults  I  had  I  was  at 
any  rate  a  lady,  but  I  find  I  am  not.  I  discovered 
something  by  the  merest  chance  a  short  time  ago,  and 
since  then,  for  the  last  fortnight  I  have  been  acting 
in  a  dishonourable  and  vulgar  manner,  in  short,  spying 
upon  another  person." 

"  That  must  have  made  you  miserable." 

"  It  has.  I  am  miserable.  But  I  deserve  that.  I 
did  not  come  to  talk  about  that.  The  point  is  this " 

"  Bessie,  I  don't  want  to  hear  what  you  evidently 
ought  not  to  know." 

"  Yes,  you  must,  because  someone  else  needs  your 
advice." 

"  We  won't,  trouble  our  minds  about  the  someone 
else." 

Bessie  had,  however,  inherited  another  characteris- 
tic trait  of  her  father's.  She  could  ignore  when  she 
chose.  She  chose  now. 

"  I  may  as  well  put  you  in  possession  of  the  facts," 
she  continued.  "  A  few  weeks  ago  I  was  coming  home 


190  PRISONERS 

by  Pilgrim  Road.  I  was  not  hurrying  because  I  was 
struck,  as  I  always  am  struck — I  don't  suppose  I  am 
peculiar  in  this — by  the  first  appearance  of  spring. 
Pilgrim  Road  is  a  sheltered  place.  Spring  always 
comes  early  there." 

"It   does." 

"  I  will  even  add  that  I  was  recalling  to  myself  verses 
of  poetry  connected  with  the  time  of  year,  when  I  saw 
a  couple  in  front  of  me.  They  were  walking  very 
slowly  with  their  backs  towards  me,  taking  earnestly 
together.  They  were  Fay  and  Wentworth." 

Magdalen  made  no  movement,  but  her  face,  always 
pale,  became  suddenly  ashen  grey. 

If  Fay  were  seriously  attracted  by  Wentworth  would 
she  ever  confess,  ever  release  Michael! 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  their  walking  together," 
she  said  tremulously. 

"  There  was  one  harm  in  it,"  retorted  Bessie.  "  It 
made  me  so  angry  that  I  did  not  know  how  to  live. 
They  did  not  see  me,  and  I  struck  up  into  the  wood, 
and  I  had  to  stay  an  hour  by  myself  holding  on  to  a 
little  tree,  before  I  could  trust  myself  to  come  home." 

"  It  does  not  help  matters  to  be  angry,  Bessie.  I 
was  angry  once  for  two  years.  I  said  at  the  time  like 
Jonah  that  I  did  well,  but  I  see  now  that  I  might  have 
done  better." 

"  I  don't  particularly  care  what  helps  matters  and 
what  does  not.  I  now  come  to  my  own  disgraceful 
conduct.  I  have  spied  upon  Fay  steadily  for  the  last 
fortnight.  She  is  so  silly  she  never  even  thinks  she 
is  watched.  And  she  meets  Wentworth  in  Pilgrim 
Road  nearly  every  afternoon.  I  once  waylaid  her  as 


PRISONERS  191 

if  by  accident,  on  her  way  home,  and  asked  her  where 
she  had  been,  and  she  said  she  had  been  on  her  way 
to  Arleigh  wood,  but  had  not  got  so  far,  as  she  was 
too  tired.  Too  tired!  She  had  been  walking  up  and 
down  with  Wentworth  for  over  an  hour.  I  timed  them. 
She  never  meant  to  go  to  Arleigh  wood.  And  when 
they  said  Good-bye,  he — he  kissed  her  hand.  Since 
Fay  has  come  back  to  live  here  I  have  gradually  formed 
the  meanest  opinion  of  her.  She  is  not  truthful.  She 
is  not  sincere.  She  is  absolutely  selfish.  I  was  in- 
clined to  be  sorry  for  her  at  first,  but  I  soon  saw 
through  her.  She  did  not  really  care  for  Andrea.  She 
only  pretended.  Everything  she  does  is  a  kind  of  pretty 
pretence.  She  does  not  really  care  for  Wentworth. 
She  is  only  leading  him  on  for  her  own  amusement." 

"  I  think  it  is  much  more  likely  that  she  is  drifting 
towards  marriage  with  him  without  being  fully  aware 
of  what  she  is  doing.  But  women  like  you  and  me  are 
not  in  the  same  position  towards  men  as  Fay  is.  Con- 
sequently it  is  very  difficult  for  us  to  judge  her  fairly." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  You  and  I  are  not  attractive  to  men.  Fay  is. 
You  saw  Wentworth  kiss  her  hand.  You  naturally 
infer,  but  you  are  probably  wrong,  that  Fay  had  been 
leading  him  on,  as  you  call  it." 

"  It  will  take  a  good  deal  to  disabuse  me  of  that 
at  any  rate.  I  believe  my  own  eyes." 

"  1  should  not  if  I  were  you.  If  anyone  kissed  your 
hand  or  mine  it  would  not  only  be  an  epoch  in  our 
lives,  but  also  the  sign  manual  of  some  ponderous  at- 
tachment which  you,  my  dear,  would  carefully  weigh, 
and  approximately  value.  But  do  you  suppose  for 


192  PRISONERS 

one  moment  that  Fay  attaches  any  importance  to  such 
an  everyday  occurrence !  " 

"  I  see  what  you  are  driving  at,  that  Fay  is  not 
responsible  for  her  actions.  But  she  is.  She  must 
know  when  she  does  things  or  lets  them  be  done,  that 
will  make  others  suffer." 

"  If  you  could  look  into  Fay's  heart,  Bessie,  you 
would  find  that  Fay  is  suffering  herself  and  attribut- 
ing her  pain  to  others.  As  long  as  we  do  that,  as 
long  as  we  hold  the  stick  by  the  wrong  end,  we  must 
inflict  pain  in  some  form  or  other.  Fay  is  not  happy. 
You  cannot  look  at  her  without  seeing  it." 

"  I  would  not  mind  so  much  if  it  were  not  for  Went- 
worth,"  said  Bessie  with  dreadful  courage.  "  I  know 
it  is  partly  jealousy,  but  it  is  not  only  jealousy.  There 
are  a  few  crumbs  of  unselfishness  in  it.  I  thought  at 
first — I  reasoned  it  out  with  myself  and  it  appeared 
a  logical  conclusion — that  father  was  the  ostensible 
but  not  the  real  object  of  Wentworth's  frequent  visits. 
I  took  a  great  interest  in  his  conversation;  it  is  so 
lucid,  so  well  informed,  so  illuminative.  I  do  not  read 
novels  as  a  rule,  but  I  dipped  into  a  few,  studying  the 
love  scenes,  and  the  preliminary  approaches  to  love 
scenes  in  order  to  aid  my  inexperience  at  this  juncture. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  I  fell  into  the  error  that  he  might 
possibly  reciprocate  the  growing  interest  I  felt  in  him, 
in  spite  of  the  great  disparity  in  age.  It  was  a  mis- 
take. I  have  suffered  for  it." 

The  two  roses  of  Bessie's  cheeks  bloomed  on  as 
unflinchingly  as  ever. 

Magdalen's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  own  hands. 


PRISONERS  193 

"  You  would  not  have  suited  each  other  if  he  had 
cared  for  you,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "  for  you 
would  not  have  done  him  justice  when  you  got  to  know 
him  better,  any  more  than  you  do  Fay  justice  now 
that  you  do  know  her  better.  Wentworth  is  made  of 
words,  just  as  other  men  are  made  of  flesh  and  blood. 
How  would  you  have  kept  any  respect  for  him  when 
you  had  become  tired  of  words?  You  are  too  straight- 
forward, too  sledge-hammer  to  understand  a  character 
like  his." 

**  In  that  case  Fay  ought  to  suit  him,"  said  Bessie 
grimly.  "  No  one,  not  even  you,  can  call  her  straight- 
forward. But  I  begin  to  think,  Magdalen,  that  you 
actually  wish  for  the  marriage." 

"  I  had  never  thought  of  it  as  possible  on  her  side 
until  a  few  minutes  ago,  when  what  you  said  took  me 
by  surprise.  Of  course  I  had  noticed  the  attraction 
on  his  side,  but  it  appeared  to  me  he  was  irresolute 
and  timid,  and  it  is  better  to  ignore  the  faint  emo- 
tions of  half-hearted  people.  They  come  to  no  good. 
If  you  repel  them  they  are  mortally  offended  and 
withdraw,  and  if  you  welcome  them  they  are  terrified 
and  withdraw." 

"  I  don't  think  Wentworth  intends  withdrawing." 

"  No.  These  meetings  look  as  if  he  had  uncon- 
sciously drifted  with  the  current  till  the  rowing  back 
would  be  somewhat  arduous."  There  was  a  moment's 
silence,  in  which  Magdalen  recalled  certain  lofty  senti- 
ments which  Wentworth  had  aired  with  suspicious  fre- 
quency of  late.  She  knew  that  when  he  talked  of  his 
consciousness  of  guidance  by  a  Higher  Power  in  the 


194  PRISONERS 

important  decisions  of  his  life  he  always  meant  follow- 
ing the  line  of  least  resistance.  In  this  case  the  line 
of  least  resistance  might  tend  towards  marriage. 

"  It  never  struck  me  as  possible  till  now,"  she  said 
aloud,  "  that  Fay  would  think  seriously  of  him." 

"  I  don't  suppose  she  is.  She  is  only  keeping  her 
hand  in.  Don't  you  remember  how  cruel  she  was  to 
that  poor  Mr.  Bell." 

"  I  am  convinced  that  she  is  not  keeping  her  hand 
in." 

"  Then  you  actually  favour  the  idea  of  a  marriage." 
Bessie  got  up  and  stalked  slowly  to  the  door.  "  You 
will  help  it  on  ?  "  she  said  over  her  shoulder. 

"  No."  Magdalen's  voice  shook  a  little.  "  I  will 
do  nothing  to  help  it,  or  to  hinder  it." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

The  dawn  broke  dim  on  Rose  Mary's  soul — 
No  hill-crown's  heavenly  aureole, 
But  a  wild  gleam  on  a  shaken  shoal. 

— D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

IF  Fay's  progress  through  life  could  have  been  drawn 
with  a  pencil  it  would  have  resembled  the  ups  and 
downs,  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw,  of  a  fever  chart. 

To  Magdalen  it  appeared  as  if  Fay  could  undergo 
the  same  feelings  with  the  same  impotent  results  of 
remorse  or  depression  a  hundred  times.  They  seemed 
to  find  her  the  same  and  leave  her  the  same.  But  never- 
theless she  did  move,  imperceptibly,  unconsciously — no, 
not  quite  unconsciously.  The  sense — common  to  all 
weak  natures — not  of  being  guided,  but  of  being 
pushed  was  upon  her. 

Once  again  she  tried  to  extricate  herself  from  the 
pressure  of  some  mysterious  current.  There  seemed 
no  refuge  left  in  Magdalen.  There  seemed  very  few 
comfortable  people  left  in  the  world,  to  whom  a  miser- 
able woman  might  turn.  Only  Wentworth.  He  did 
not  know. 

Perhaps  Fay  would  never  have  turned  to  him  if  she 
had  not  first  confided  in  and  then  shrunk  from  Mag- 
dalen. For  the  second  time  in  her  life  she  longed 
feverishly  to  get  away  from  home,  the  home  to  which 
only  a  year  ago  she  had  been  so  glad  to  hurry  back, 

195 


196  PRISONERS 

when  she  had  been  so  restlessly  anxious  to  get  away  from 
Italy.  Wentworth  was  beginning  to  look  like  a  means 
of  escape.  The  duke  had  at  one  time  worn  that  as- 
pect. Later  on  Michael  had  looked  extremely  like  it 
for  a  moment.  Now  Wentworth  was  assuming  that 
aspect  in  a  more  solid  manner  than  either  of  his  prede- 
cessors. She  was  slipping  into  love  with  him,  half 
unconsciously,  half  with  malice  prepense.  She  told 
herself  continually  that  she  did  not  want  to  marry 
him  or  anyone,  that  she  hated  the  very  idea  of  marriage. 

But  her  manner  to  Wentworth  seemed  hardly  to  be 
the  outward  reflection  of  these  inward  communings. 
And  why  did  she  conceal  from  Magdalen  her  now 
constant  meetings  with  him? 

Wentworth  had  by  this  time  tested  and  found  cor- 
rect all  his  intimate  knowledge  of  Woman,  that  knowl- 
edge which  at  first  had  not  seemed  to  work  out  quite 
smoothly. 

Nothing  could  be  more  flattering,  more  essentially 
womanly  than  Fay's  demeanour  to  him  had  become 
since  he  had  set  her  mind  at  rest  as  to  his  intentions 
on  that  idyllic  afternoon  after  the  storm.  (How  he 
had  set  her  mind  at  rest  on  that  occasion  he  knew  best.) 
It  seemed  this  exquisite  nature  only  needed  the  sun- 
shine of  his  unspoken  assurance  to  respond  with  de- 
lighted tenderness  to  his  refined,  his  cultured  advances. 
He  was  already  beginning  to  write  imaginary  letters 
to  his  friends,  on  the  theme  of  his  engagement:  semi- 
humourous  academic  effusions  as  to  how  he,  who  had 
so  long  remained  immune,  had  succumbed  at  last  to 
feminine  charm;  how  he,  the  determined  celibate — 
Wentworth  always  called  himself  a  celibate — had  been 


PRISONERS  197 

taken  captive  after  all.  To  judge  by  the  letters  which 
Wentworth  conned  over  in  his  after-dinner  mind,  and 
especially  one  to  Grenfell,  the  conlusion  was  irresisti- 
ble to  the  meanest  intellect  that  he  had  long  waged  a 
frightful  struggle  with  the  opposite  sex  to  have  re- 
mained a  bachelor — a  celibate,  I  mean — so  long. 

We  have  all  different  ways  of  enjoying  ourselves. 
In  the  composition  of  these  imaginary  letters  Went- 
worth tasted  joy. 

In  these  days  Fay's  boxes  of  primroses  jostled  each 
other  in  the  postman's  cart,  on  their  way  to  cheer 
patients  on  their  beds  of  pain  in  London  hospitals. 

Fay  read  the  hurried,  grateful  notes  of  busy  mat- 
rons, over  and  over  again.  They  were  a  kind  of 
anodyne. 

On  a  blowing  afternoon  in  the  middle  of  April  she 
made  her  way  across  the  down  with  her  basket  to  a 
distant  hazel  coppice  to  which  she  had  not  been  as  yet. 

A  fever  of  unrest  possessed  her.  She  had  thought 
when  she  confessed  to  Magdalen  that  her  misery  had 
reached  its  lowest  depths.  But  it  had  not  been  so. 
Her  wretchedness,  momentarily  relieved,  had  since  gone 
a  step  deeper,  that  was  all.  She  had  endeavoured  to 
allay  her  thirst  with  a  cup  of  salt  water,  which  had 
only  increased  it  to  the  point  of  agony. 

As  she  walked  a  bare  tree  stretched  out  its  naked 
arms  to  waylay  her.  It  was  the  very  tree  under  which 
Michael  and  she  had  kissed  each  other,  six  spring-tides 
ago.  She  recognised  it  suddenly,  and  turned  her  eyes 
away,  as  if  a  corpse  were  hanging  in  chains  from  one 
of  its  branches.  Her  averted  eyes  fell  upon  a  seagull 


198  PRISONERS 

wheeling  against  the  blue,  the  incarnation  of  freedom 
and  the  joy  of  life.  She  turned  away  her  eyes  again 
and  hurried  on,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left. 

A  light  wind  went  with  her,  drawing  her  like  a  "  kind 
constraining  hand." 

She  stumbled  across  the  bare  shoulder  of  the  down  to 
the  wood  below. 

Magdalen  came  by  the  same  way  soon  afterwards, 
but  not  to  gather  primroses.  Magdalen  usually  so 
serene  was  becoming  daily  more  troubled.  The  thought 
of  Michael  in  prison  ground  her  to  the  earth.  Fay's 
obvious  wayward  misery,  which  yet  seemed  to  bring 
her  no  nearer  to  repentance,  preyed  upon  her.  She  was 
crushed  beneath  her  own  promise  of  secrecy.  Every 
day  as  it  passed  seemed  to  cast  yet  another  stone  on 
the  heap  under  which  she  lay. 

Could  she  dare  to  keep  that  promise?  How  much 
longer  could  she  dare  to  keep  it?  And  yet  if  she 
broke  it,  what  would  breaking  it  avail?  Certainly 
not  Michael's  release.  No  creature  would  believe  her 
unsupported  word.  She  had  not  even  been  in  Italy  at 
the  time.  She  would  only  appear  to  be  mad.  The 
utmost  she  might  achieve  would  be  to  cast  a  malignant 
shadow  over  her  sister.  Even  if  Fay  herself  confessed 
the  difficulties  of  obtaining  Michael's  release  after  this 
lapse  of  time  would  be  very  great.  Unless  the  con- 
fession came  from  her  they  would  be  insuperable. 

As  Magdalen  walked  her  strong  heart  quailed  within 
her.  Long  ago  in  her  passionate  youth  she  had  met 
anguish  and  had  vanquished  it  alone.  But  how  to 
bear  the  burden  of  another's  sin  without  sharing  the 
sin?  How  to  help  Fay  and  Michael?  Fay  had  in- 


PRISONERS  199 

deed  cast  her  burden  upon  her.  She  knew  not  how  to 
endure  it,  she  who  had  endured  so  much. 

She  reached  the  wood,  and  entered  one  of  the  manj 
aimless  paths  that  wandered  through  it.  The  uneven 
ground  sloped  downwards  to  the  south,  and  through 
the  manifold  branches  of  the  undergrowth  of  bud- 
ding hazels  the  sea  lay  deeply  blue,  far  away.  The 
primroses  were  everywhere  among  the  trees.  A  wind- 
ing side  path  beckoned  to  her.  She  walked  a  few  steps 
along  it,  and  came  suddenly  upon  a  clearing  in  the 
coppice. 

She  stood  still,  dazed. 

The  primroses  had  taken  it  for  their  own,  had  laid 
tender  hold  upon  that  little  space,  cleared  and  forgotten 
in  the  heart  of  the  wood. 

Young  shoots  of  hazel  and  ash  pricked  up  here  and 
there  from  ivy-grown  stumps,  moss  gleamed  where  it 
could,  through  the  flood  of  primroses.  The  wild  green 
of  the  mercury,  holding  its  strong  shield  to  the  sun, 
the  violets,  and  the  virgin  white  of  the  anemones  were 
drowned  in  the  uneven  waves  and  billows  and  shallows 
of  that  sea  of  primroses.  They  who  come  in  meekness 
year  by  year  to  roadside  hedgerow  and  homely  meadow 
had  come  in  power.  The  meek  had  inherited  the  earth. 

The  light  wind  impotently  came,  and  vainly  went. 
Overhead  a  lark  sang  and  sang  in  the  blue.  But  none 
heeded  them.  The  wind  and  the  song  were  but  a  shadow 
and  an  echo.  They  that  are  the  very  core  of  spring 
hung  forgotten  on  her  garments'  fringe.  All  the  pas- 
sion of  the  world  was  gathered  into  the  still,  upturned 
faces  of  the  primroses,  glowing  with  a  pale  light  from 
within.  All  the  love  that  ever  had  been,  or  could  be, 


200  PRISONERS 

all  rapture  of  aspiration  and  service  and  self-surrender 
were  mirrored  there. 


Magdalen  wept  for  Fay,  as  once  in  bygone  years 
she  had  wept  for  Everard:  as  perhaps  some  woman  of 
Palestine  may  have  wept  when  Jesus  of  Nazareth  passed 
by,  speaking  as  never  man  spake,  and  her  lover  went 
with  him  a  little  way  and  then  turned  back. 

"  There  is  no  sorrow,"  said  the  primroses.  "  There 
is  neither  sorrow  nor  sin.  You  are  of  one  blood  with 
us.  You  have  come  through  into  light,  as  we  have 
done,  and  those  others  are  coming,  too.  There  is  no 
sorrow,  only  a  little  pressure  through  the  brown  earth. 
There  is  no  sin,  only  a  little  waking  and  stirring  in 
the  dark.  Why  then  grieve,  oh  little  faith !  They  are 
all  waking  and  coming.  For  the  Hand  that  made  us 
made  them.  The  Whisper  that  waked  us,  wakes  them. 
The  Sun  that  draws  us,  draws  them.  The  Sun  will  have 
us  come." 

Fay  had  already  passed  by  that  way,  had  picked  a 
few  primroses,  and  had  gone  on.  Was  she  never  to  be 
at  peace  again?  Was  she  never  to  know  what  it  is  to 
lie  down  in  peace  at  night,  never  to  know  what  it  is 
to  be  without  fear.  Her  whole  soul  yearned  for  peace, 
as  the  sick  man  yearns  for  sleep.  Andrea  had  prayed 
that  she  might  find  peace.  Magdalen  had  told  her 
where  peace  lay.  But  all  that  she  had  found  was 
despair. 

On  her  way  homewards  she  came  again  upon  the 
clearing  and  stopped  short.  The  place  seemed  to  have 


PRISONERS  201 

undergone  some  subtle  change.  A  tall  figure  was  stand- 
ing motionless  in  it.  The  face  was  turned  away,  but 
Fay  recognised  it  instantly.  As  she  came  close  Mag- 
dalen turned.  For  a  moment  Fay  saw  that  she  did 
not  recognise  her,  that  she  was  withdrawn  into  a  great 
peace  and  light. 

Then  recognition  dawned  in  Magdalen's  eyes  and 
with  it  came  a  look  of  tenderness  unspeakable. 

"  Fay,"  she  said  in  a  great  compassion.  "  How 
much  longer  will  you  torture  yourself  and  Michael? 
How  much  longer  will  you  keep  him  in  prison  ?  " 

Fay  was  transfixed. 

Those  were  the  same  words  that  Andrea  had  said  on 
his  deathbed.  Those  words  were  alive,  though  he  was 
dead.  Never  to  any  living  creature,  not  even  to  Mag- 
dalen, had  she  repeated  them.  Yet  Magdalen  was  say- 
ing them.  She  could  not  withstand  them  any  longer. 
The  very  stones  would  shriek  them  out  next. 

She  fell  at  Magdalen's  feet  with  a  cry. 

"  I  will  speak,"  she  gasped  in  mortal  terror.  "  I 
will  speak."  And  she  clung  for  very  life  to  her  sister's 
knees,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  gown. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

To-day   unbind   the   captive, 
So  only  are  ye  unbound. 

— EMERSON. 

THE  following  afternoon  saw  Magdalen  and  Fay  driv- 
ing together  to  Lostford,  to  consult  the  Bishop  as  to 
what  steps  it  would  be  advisable  to  take  in  the  matter 
of  Michael's  release.  Magdalen  felt  it  would  be  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  go  direct  to  Wentworth,  even  if  he 
had  been  at  Barford.  But  he  had  been  summoned  to 
London  the  day  before  on  urgent  business.  And  with 
Fay  even  a  day's  delay  might  mean  a  change  of  mind. 
It  was  essential  to  act  at  once. 

But  to  Magdalen's  surprise  Fay  did  not  try  to  draw- 
back. When  the  carriage  came  to  the  door  she  got 
into  it.  She  assented  to  everything,  was  ready  to  do 
anything  Magdalen  told  her.  She  was  like  one  stunned. 
She  had  at  last  closed  with  the  inevitable.  She  had 
found  it  too  strong  for  her. 

Did  Fay  realise  how  frightfully  she  had  complicated 
her  position  by  her  own  folly?  She  lay  back  in  her 
corner  of  the  brougham  with  her  eyes  shut,  pallid, 
silent.  Magdalen  held  her  hand,  and  spoke  encour- 
agingly from  time  to  time. 

You  had  to  be  constantly  holding  Fay's  hand,  or 
kissing  her,  or  taking  her  in  your  arms  if  you  were  to 
make  her  feel  that  you  loved  her.  The  one  light  austere 

202 


PRISONERS  203 

touch,  the  long  grave  look,  that  between  reserved  and 
sympathetic  natures  goes  deeper  than  any  caress,  were 
nothing  to  Fay. 

It  was  a  long  drive  to  Lostford,  and  to-day  it  seemed 
interminable. 

The  lonely  chalk  road  seemed  to  stretch  forever 
across  the  down.  Now  and  then  a  few  heavily-matted, 
fatigued-looking  sheep,  hustled  by  able-bodied  lambs, 
got  in  the  way.  The  postman,  horn  on  shoulder,  passed 
them  on  his  way  to  Priesthope  with  the  papers. 

Once  a  man  on  a  horse  cantered  past  across  the 
grass  at  some  distance.  Magdalen  recognised  Went- 
worth  on  Conrad.  She  saw  him  turn  into  the  bridle 
path  that  led  to  Priesthope.  He  had  then  just  returned 
from  London. 

"  He  is  on  his  way  to  see  Fay,"  said  Magdalen  to  her- 
self, "  and  he  is  actually  in  a  hurry.  How  interested 
he  must  be  in  the  ardour  of  his  own  emotions  at  this 
moment.  He  will  have  a  delightful  ride,  and  he  can 
analyse  his  feelings  of  disappointment  at  not  seeing  her, 
on  his  way  home  to  tea." 

Magdalen  glanced  at  Fay,  but  she  still  lay  back 
with  closed  eyes.  She  had  not  seen  that  passing  figure. 

Magdalen's  mind  followed  .Wentworth. 

"  Does  she  realise  the  complications  that  must  almost 
certainly  ensue  with  Wentworth  directly  her  confession 
is  made? 

"  Will  her  first  step  towards  a  truer  life,  her  first 
action  of  reparation  estrange  him  from  her?  " 

The  Bishop  was  pacing  up  and  down  in  the  library 
at  Lostford,  waiting  for  Magdalen  and  Fay,  when  the 


204  PRISONERS 

servant  brought  in  the  day's  papers.  He  took  them  up 
instantly  with  the  alertness  of  a  man  who  can  only 
make  time  for  necessary  things  by  seizing  every  spare 
moment. 

"  Oh !  you  two  wicked  women,"  he  said  as  he  opened 
the  Times.  "  Why  are  you  late  ?  Why  are  you 
late?" 

They  were  only  five  minutes  late. 

His  swift  eye  travelled  from  column  to  column.  Sud- 
denly his  attention  was  arrested.  He  became  absorbed. 
Then  he  laid  down  the  paper,  and  said  below  his  breath 
"  Thank  God." 

At  that  moment  Magdalen  and  Fay  were  announced. 

For  a  second  it  seemed  as  if  the  Bishop  had  forgotten 
them.  Then  he  recollected  and  went  forward  to  meet 
them.  He  knew  that  only  a  matter  of  supreme  urgency 
could  have  made  Magdalen  word  her  telegram  as  she 
had  worded  it,  and  when  he  caught  sight  of  Fay's  face 
he  realised  that  she  was  in  jeopardy. 

All  other  preoccupations  fell  from  him  instantly. 
He  welcomed  them  gravely,  almost  in  silence. 

The  sisters  sat  down  close  together  on  a  sofa.  Fay's 
trembling  hand  put  up  her  long  black  veil,  and  then 
sought  Magdalen's  hand,  which  was  ready  for  it. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Magdalen  looked  ear- 
nestly at  her  sister. 

Fay's  face  became  suddenly  convulsed. 

"  Fay  is  in  great  trouble,"  said  Magdalen.  "  She 
has  come  to  tell  you  about  it.  She  has  suffered  very 
much." 

"  I  can  see  that,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"  I  wish  to  confess,"  said  Fay  in  a  smothered  voice. 


PRISONERS  205 

"  That  is  a  true  instinct,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  God 
puts  it  into  our  hearts  to  confess  when  we  are  unhappy 
so  that  we  may  be  comforted.  When  we  come  to  see 
that  we  have  done  less  well  than  we  might  have  done — 
then  we  need  comfort." 

Fay  looked  from  him  to  Magdalen  with  wide,  hardly 
human  eyes,  like  some  tiny  trapped  animal  between  two 
executioners. 

The  Bishop's  heart  contracted. 

Poor,  poor  little  thing ! 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  me  alone,  my  child  ?"  he 
said,  seeing  a  faint  trembling  like  that  of  a  butterfly 
beginning  in  her.  "  All  you  say  to  me  will  be  under 
the  seal  of  confession.  It  will  never  pass  my  lips." 

It  was  Magdalen's  turn  to  become  pale. 

"  Shall  I  go  ?  "  she  said,  looking  fixedly  at  her  sister. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fay,  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 

Magdalen  went  slowly  to  the  door,  feeling  her  way  as 
if  half  blind. 

"  Come  back,"  shrieked  Fay  suddenly.  "  Magdalen, 
come  back.  I  shall  never  say  it  all,  I  shall  keep  back 
part  unless  you  are  there  to  hold  me  to  it.  Come  back. 
Come  back." 

Magdalen  returned  and  sat  down.  The  Bishop 
watched  them  both  in  silence. 

"  I  have  confessed  once,  already,"  said  Fay  in  a 
low  hurried  voice,  "  under  the  promise  of  silence.  Mag- 
dalen promised  not  to  say,  and  I  told  her  everything, 
weeks  ago.  I  thought  I  should  feel  better  then,  but 
it  wasn't  any  good.  It  only  made  it  worse." 

"  It  is  often  like  that,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  We  try 
to  do  something  right  but  not  in  the  best  way,  and 


206  PRISONERS 

just  the  fact  of  trying  shows  us  there  is  a  better  way — 
only  harder,  so  hard  we  don't  know  how  to  bring  our- 
selves to  it.  Isn't  that  what  you  feel?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  there  is  no  rest,  no  peace  till  we  come  to  it." 

"  No,"  whispered  Fay.     "  Never  any  rest." 

"  That  is  God's  Hand  drawing  you,"  said  the  Bishop, 
his  mind  seeming  to  embrace  and  support  Fay's  totter- 
ing soul.  "  There  are  things  He  wants  done,  which 
He  needs  us  to  do  for  Him,  which  perhaps  only  we  can 
do  for  Him.  At  first  we  don't  understand  that,  and 
we  are  so  ignorant  and  foolish  that  we  resist  the  pres- 
sure of  His  Hand.  Then  we  suffer." 

Fay  shivered. 

"  That  resistance  is  what  some  people  call  sin.  It  is 
unendurable,  the  only  real  anguish  in  the  world.  You 
see  we  are  not  meant  to  bear  it.  And  it  is  no  manner 
of  use  to  resist  Him,  for  God  is  stronger  than  we  are, 
and  He  loves  us  too  much  ever  to  lose  heart  with  us, 
ever  to  blame  us,  ever  to  leave  us  to  ourselves.  He 
sees  we  don't  understand  that  He  can't  do  without  us, 
and  that  we  can't  do  without  Him.  And  at  last,  when 
we  feel  God's  need  of  us,  then  it  becomes  possible  " — 
the  Bishop  paused — "  to  say  the  difficult  word,  to  do 
the  difficult  deed." 

Did  she  understand?  Who  shall  say!  Sometimes 
it  seems  as  if  no  actual  word  reaches  us  that  Love  would 
fain  say  to  our  unrest  and  misery.  But  our  troubled 
hearts  are  nevertheless  conscious  by  some  other  chan- 
nel, some  medium  more  subtle  than  thought  and  speech, 
that  Love  and  Peace  have  drawn  very  near  to  us.  It 
is  only  reflected  dimly  through  dear  human  faces  that 


PRISONERS  207 

some  of  us  can   catch   a  glimpse   of  "  the  light  that 
lighteth  every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world." 

The  small  tortured  face  relaxed  between  the  two 
calm  ones.  The  sunny  room  was  quite  still.  Fear 
shrank  to  a  shadow. 

Suddenly  the  fire  drew  itself  together  with  a  little 
encouraging  sound. 

Fay  started  slightly,  looked  at  it,  and  began  to 
speak  rapidly  in  a  low  clear  voice. 

As  Magdalen  listened  she  prayed  with  intensity  that 
Fay  might  really  tell  the  Bishop  the  whole  story,  as 
she  had  told  it  to  herself,  that  stormy  night  in  March, 
half  a  life-time  ago. 

The  little  voice  went  on  and  on.  It  faltered,  sank, 
and  then  struggled  up  again.  One  point  after  another 
was  reached  in  safety,  was  passed.  Nothing  that  Fay 
had  already  admitted  was  left  out.  Gradually,  as  Mag- 
dalen listened,  a  faint  shame  laid  hold  of  her.  Her 
whole  life  had  for  the  time  centred  in  one  passionate 
overwhelming  desire  that  Fay  should  make  to  the  Bishop 
as  full  a  confession  as  she  had  made  to  herself.  Now 
she  realised  that  Fay  was  saying  even  more  than  she 
had  done  on  that  occasion,  was  excusing  herself  less, 
was  blaming  others  less. 

Fay  herself  saw  no  discrepancy  between  her  first 
and  second  account  of  the  tragedy.  But  then  she  never 
did  see  discrepancies.  Her  mind  had  shifted  a  little 
towards  the  subject,  that  was  all.  This  mysterious 
unconscious  shifting  of  the  mind  had  been  hidden  from 
Magdalen,  who  had  felt  with  anguish  that  all  she  had 
said  on  that  night  of  the  storm  had  had  no  effect  on 
Fay's  mind.  She  had  never  seen  till  now  a  vestige  of 


208  PRISONERS 

an  effect.  Fay  had  shrunk  from  her  persistently  after- 
wards, that  was  all. 

Strong  and  ardent  souls  often  wonder  why  an  appeal 
which  they  know,  if  made  to  themselves,  would  clinch 
them  forever  into  a  regenerating  repentance  is  entirely 
powerless  with  a  different  class  of  mind.  But  although 
an  irresistible  truth  spoken  in  love  will  renovate  our 
being,  and  will  fail  absolutely  to  reach  the  mind  of 
another,  nevertheless  the  weaker,  vainer  nature  will 
sometimes  pick  out  of  the  uncomfortable  appeal,  to 
which  it  turns  its  deaf  ear,  a  few  phrases  less  distress- 
ing to  its  amour  propre  than  the  rest.  To  these  it  will 
listen.  Fay  had  retained  in  her  mind  Magdalen's  vivid 
description  of  the  love  her  husband  and  Michael  had 
borne  her.  She  had  often  dwelt  upon  the  remembrance 
that  she  had  been  greatly  loved.  During  the  miserable 
weeks  when  she  had  virtually  made  up  her  mind  not 
to  speak,  that  remembrance  had  worked  within  her  like 
leaven,  unconsciously  softening  her  towards  her  hus- 
band, drawing  her  towards  compassion  on  Michael. 

Now  that  she  did  speak  again  she  did  not  reproach 
them.  She  who  had  blamed  them  both  so  bitterly  a  few 
short  weeks  ago  blamed  them  no  longer.  Nor  did  she 
say  anything  about  the  culpable  silence  of  the  real 
murderer.  That  mysterious  criminal,  that  scapegoat 
who  had  so  far  aroused  her  bitterest  animosity  had 
ceased  to  darken  her  mind. 

Fay  had  passed  unconsciously  far  beyond  the  limita- 
tions of  Magdalen's  anxious  prayer  on  her  behalf.  The 
love  of  Andrea  and  Michael,  tardily  seen,  only  partially 
realised,  had  helped  her  at  last. 

The  Bishop  listened  and  listened,  a  little  bent  for- 


PRISONERS  209 

ward,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  his  chin  in  his  hand.  Once 
he  made  a  slight  movement  when  Fay  reached  Michael's 
arrest,  but  he  quickly  recovered  himself. 

The  faint  voice  faltered  itself  out  at  last.  The  story 
was  at  an  end.  The  Duke  was  dead  and  Michael  was 
in  prison. 

"  I  have  kept  him  there  two  years,"  said  Fay,  and 
was  silent. 

How  she  had  raged  against  the  cruelty  of  her  hus- 
band's dying  words.  What  passionate,  vindictive  tears 
she  had  shed  at  the  remembrance  of  them.  Now,  un- 
consciously, she  adopted  them  herself.  She  had  ceased 
to  resist  them,  and  the  sting  had  gone  clean  out  of 
them. 

"  Two  years,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  Two  years.  Fast 
bound  in  misery  and  iron.  You  in  misery  and  he  only 
in  iron.  You  two  poor  children." 

His  strong  face  worked,  and  for  a  moment  he  shaded 
it  with  his  hand. 

Then  he  looked  keenly  at  Fay. 

"  And  you  have  come  to  me  to  ask  me  to  advise  you 
how  to  set  Michael  and  yourself  free?  " 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Fay. 

"  It  was  time  to  come," 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"  And  you  understand,  my  dear,  dear  child,  that  you 
can  only  rescue  Michael  by  taking  heavy  blame  upon 
yourself,  blame  first  of  all  for  having  a  clandestine 
meeting  with  him,  and  then  blame  for  letting  him  sacri- 
fice himself  for  your  good  name,  and  lastly  blame  for 
keeping  an  innocent  man  in  prison  so  long." 

Fay  shook  like  <n  leaf. 


210  PRISONERS 

The  Bishop  took  her  lifeless  hands  in  his,  and  held 
them.  He  made  her  meet  his  eyes.  Stern,  tender, 
unflinching  eyes  they  were,  with  a  glint  of  tears  in  them. 

"  You  are  willing  to  bear  the  cross,  and  endure  the 
shame?  "  he  said. 

Two  large  tears  gathered  in  Fay's  wide  eyes,  and 
rolled  down  her  bloodless  cheeks. 

You  could  not  look  at  her,  and  think  that  the  poor 
thing  was  willing  to  endure  anything,  capable  of 
enduring  anything. 

The  Bishop  looked  at  her,  through  her. 

*'  Or  would  you  rather  go  home  and  wait  in  misery  a 
little  longer,  and  keep  him  in  his  cell  a  little  longer: 
another  week — another  month — another  year!  You 
know  best  how  much  longer  you  can  wait." 

Silence. 

"  And  Michael  can  wait,  too." 

"  Michael  must  come  out,"  said  Fay,  with  a  sob. 
"  He  was  always  good  to  me." 

"  Thank  God,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  he  rose  abruptly 
and  went  to  the  window. 

Magdalen  and  Fay  did  not  move.  They  leaned  a 
little  closer  together.  Fay's  timid  eyes  sought  her 
sister's  like  those  of  a  child  which  has  repeated  its  les- 
son, and  looks  to  its  teacher  to  see  if  it  has  done  well. 

Magdalen  kissed  her  on  the  eyes. 

"  I  have  said  everything,  haven't  I?  " 

"  Everything." 

"  I  wish  I  was  dead." 

Magdalen  had  no  voice  to  answer  with. 

The  Bishop  came  back,  and  sat  down  opposite  them. 

*'  Fay,"  he  said,  "  as  long  as  you  live  you  will  be 


PRISONERS  211 

thankful  that  you  came  to  me  to-day,  that  you  were 
willing  to  make  atonement  by  this  great  act  of  repara- 
tion. The  comfort  of  that  remembrance  will  sink  deep 
into  your  troubled  heart,  and  will  heal  its  wounds.  But 
the  sacrifice  is  not  to  be  exacted  of  you.  I  had  to 
ask  if  you  were  willing  to  make  it.  But  there  is  no 
longer  any  necessity  for  you  to  make  it.  Do  you 
understand?  " 

The  Bishop  spoke  slowly.  The  two  women  looked 
at  him  with  dilated  eyes. 

"  Is  Michael  dead?  "  said  Magdalen. 

"  No.  Michael  is,  I  believe,  well.  The  murderer  of 
the  Marchese  di  Maltagliala  has  confessed.  It  is  in 
to-day's  papers.  The  Marchese  was  murdered  by  his 
wife.  It  was  quite  sudden  and  unpremeditated,  the 
work  of  an  instant  of  terror.  She  has  made  a  full  con- 
fession on  her  deathbed.  It  exonerates  Michael  en- 
tirely. She  implores  his  forgiveness  for  her  long 
silence." 

The  Bishop's  last  words  reached  Fay  from  a  great 
distance.  The  room  with  its  many  books,  and  the  tall 
mullioned  window  with  the  bare  elm  branches  across 
it,  were  all  turning  gently  together  in  a  spreading 
dimness.  The  only  thing  that  remained  fixed  was  Mag- 
dalen's shoulder,  and  even  that  shook  a  little.  Fay 
leaned  her  face  against  it,  and  let  all  the  rest  go.  The 
window  with  its  tree  quivered  for  a  moment  across  the 
dark  and  then  flickered  out.  The  consciousness  of  tender 
hands  and  voices  lingered  a  moment  longer  and  then 
vanished  too. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

All  the  heavy  days  are  over. — W.  B.  YEATS. 

IT  was  very  late  when  Magdalen  and  Fay  reached  home. 

Bessie  was  on  the  lookout  for  them,  and  met  them  in 
the  hall. 

'*  Wentworth  has  been  here,"  she  said.  "  He  arrived 
about  an  hour  after  you  had  started.  As  you  were 
both  out  he  asked  to  see  me.  He  was  greatly  excited. 
He  had  come  to  tell  us  that  Michael's  innocence  has 
suddenly  been  proved.  He  goes  to  Italy  to-morrow. 
He  said  he  would  call  here  on  his  way  to  the  station 
a  little  before  eleven,  to  tell  you  both  about  it." 

And  punctually  at  a  few  minutes  to  eleven  Wentworth 
appeared,  and  was  ushered  into  the  little  white  morning- 
room  where  Fay  was  waiting  for  him. 

The  room  was  full  of  sunshine.  The  soft  air  came 
gently  in,  bringing  with  it  a  breath  of  primroses. 

Delight  was  in  the  room,  tremulous,  shining  in  Fay's 
eyes.  Delight  was  in  the  whole  atmosphere.  An  enor- 
mous boundless  relief  overflowed  everything. 

Wentworth  was  excited,  softened,  swept  out  of  him- 
self. 

He  held  her  soft  hand  in  his.  He  tried  to  speak, 
but  he  could  not.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  was 
ashamed. 

And  when  he  looked  up  he  saw  Fay's  eyes  were  wet, 
too.  His  heart  went  out  to  her.  She  was  rejoicing 

219 


PRISONERS  213 

with  him.  He  pulled  himself  together,  and  told  her 
what  little  he  knew ;  not  much  more  than  the  bare  facts 
contained  in  the  papers.  It  was  now  known  by  the 
Marchesa's  confession  that  the  murder  took  place  inside 
the  Colle  Alto  gardens.  Everyone,  including  the 
police,  had  believed  that  the  murder  took  place  in  the 
road,  and  that  the  assassin  took  advantage  of  the  acci- 
dent of  the  garden  door  being  unlocked  to  drag 
the  body  into  the  garden,  and  hide  it  there.  But  the 
Marchesa  stated  that  she  stabbed  her  husband  in  the 
garden  suddenly  without  premeditation,  but  with  intent 
to  kill  him,  because  of  his  determination  to  marry  their 
seventeen  year  old  daughter  to  a  friend  of  his,  a  roue, 
the  old  Duke  of  Castelfranco,  who  drank  himself  to 
death  soon  afterwards. 

The  Marchesa  stated  that  she  dragged  the  body  be- 
hind a  shrub,  walked  back  through  the  garden  to  the 
house  with  the  front  of  her  gown  covered  with  blood 
without  being  noticed,  found  no  attendant  in  the  cloak 
room,  wrapped  herself  in  a  long  cloak  not  belonging 
to  her,  told  her  servants  that  the  Marchese  would  fol- 
low later,  and  drove  home,  partially  burned  her  gown 
and  the  cloak  as  if  by  accident,  and  then  awaited  events. 
The  first  news  she  received  of  her  husband's  death  next 
morning  was  accompanied  by  the  amazing  information 
that  Michael  had  confessed  to  the  murder. 

The  Marchesa  in  her  tardy  confession  stated  that 
she  believed  Michael,  who  had  always  shown  her  great 
sympathy,  must  have  actually  witnessed  the  crime,  and 
out  of  a  chivalrous  impulse  towards  her,  had  immedi- 
ately taken  the  guilt  of  it  upon  himself. 

"  That  accounts  for  his  extraordinary  silence,"  said 


214  PRISONERS 

Wentworth,  "  not  only  to  others,  but  to  myself.  He 
never  would  say  a  word  pro  or  con,  even  when  I  told 
him  it  was  no  use  trying  to  persuade  me  he  was  guilty. 
The  mystery  is  cleared  up  at  last.  I  shall  reach  Milan 
to-night,  and  I  shall  see  him  to-morrow.  And  I  sup- 
pose we  may  be  able  to  start  home  the  following  day. 
I  say  these  things,  but  I  don't  believe  them.  I  can't 
believe  them.  It  all  seems  to  me  like  some  wonderful 
dream.  And  you  are  like  a  person  in  a  dream,  too,  as 
if  a  fairy  wand  had  passed  over  you  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  Wentworth  suddenly  realised  that  this 
marvellous,  radiant  transformation  which  he  beheld  in 
Fay,  which  seemed  to  flow  even  to  the  edges  of  her 
lilac  gown,  was  happiness,  and  that  he  had  never  seen 
her  happy  till  this  moment.  She  had  always  looked 
pathetic,  mournful,  listless.  Now  for  the  first  time 
he  saw  her,  as  it  were,  released  from  some  great  oppres- 
sion, and  the  change  was  almost  that  of  identity.  Her 
beauty  had  taken  on  a  new  magic. 

There  is  no  joy  so  rapturous,  so  perfect  as  the 
moment  of  relief  from  pain.  There  was,  perhaps, 
no  creature  in  the  world  on  this  particular  April 
morning  whose  happiness  approached  Fay's.  She 
raised  her  white  eyelids  and  smiled  at  Wentworth. 

His  well-conducted  heart  nudged  him  suddenly  like 
a  vulgar,  jocular  friend. 

"  Is  all  your  gladness  for  Michael?  "  he  said  boldly. 
"  Have  you  none  to  spare  for  me?  " 

He  was  in  for  it. 

"  You  must  forgive  me  if  I  am  too  impetuous,  too 
precipitate,"  he  said,  "  but  won't  you  make  me  doubly 
happy,  Fay,  before  I  go."  He  rose  and  came  towards 


PRISONERS  215 

her.  She  looked  down,  half  frightened,  and  he  sud- 
denly felt  himself  colossal,  irresistible,  a  man  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  "  You  have  known  for  a  long  time 
that  I  love  you,"  he  said.  "Won't  you  tell  me  that 
you  love  me  a  little,  too  ?  " 

A  delightful  sense  of  liberty  and  newness  of  life  were 
flowing  in  regenerating  waves  over  Fay's  spirit. 

Wentworth  seemed  a  part  of  this  all-pervading  joy- 
ousness  and  freedom.  She  made  a  little  half  uncon- 
scious movement  towards  him,  and  in  a  moment,  that 
intrepid  man,  that  dauntless  athlete  of  the  emotions  had 
taken  her  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

He  who  gives  up  the  smallest  part  of  a  secret  has  the 
rest  no  longer  in  his  power. — JEAN  PAUL. 

THE  Marchesa's  confession  made  a  great  and  immedi- 
ate sensation  throughout  Italy.  Everyone  who  had 
known  Michael,  and  a  great  many  who  had  not,  pro- 
claimed with  one  consent  that  his  innocence  was  no 
news  to  them.  The  possibility  that  he  might  be  shield- 
ing someone  had  been  discussed  at  the  time  of  the  trial, 
but  had  found  no  shred  of  confirmation. 

And  now  the  mystery  was  solved  at  last,  and  in  the 
most  romantic  manner.  Michael  had  come  out  with 
flying  colours. 

To  many  minds  the  romance  was  enhanced  by  the 
fact  that  the  Marchesa  was  a  gentle,  middle-aged, 
grey-haired  woman  in  no  way  attractive,  whose  whole 
interest  in  life  centred  in  her  daughter.  Michael's 
transcendent  act  of  chivalry  towards  the  Marchesa, 
dramatically  acknowledged  by  her  at  last  upon  her 
deathbed,  appealed  even  to  the  most  unimaginative 
natures.  He  became  the  hero  of  the  hour.  Tele- 
grams of  congratulation  poured  in  from  every  quarter. 
Letters  snowed  in  on  him.  Even  before  Wentworth 
could  reach  him  enthusiastic  strangers  had  tried  to 
force  their  way  into  his  cell.  Determined  young  re- 
porters came  out  in  gondolas,  and  it  was  all  the  warders 
and  the  doctor  could  do  to  protect  Michael  from 
invasion. 

216 


PRISONERS  217 

He  sat  apparently  stunned  in  his  cell,  the  only  per- 
son unmoved.  Every  servant  and  warder  in  that  dreary 
establishment  had  come  to  offer  him  their  congratula- 
tions. The  other  convicts  had  sent  messages.  The 
man  in  the  next  cell,  slowly  dying  of  gangrene,  had 
crawled  from  his  pallet  to  beat  a  tattoo  on  the  wall. 
The  doctor  was  beside  himself  with  joy. 

"  You  must  keep  calm,"  he  kept  saying  in  wild 
excitement.  "  Your  brother  will  be  here  to-morrow 
morning.  I  implore  you  to  be  calm." 

And  he  brought  Michael  his  best  pipe,  and  some  of 
his  most  cherished  tobacco,  and  a  weird  suit  of  black 
clothes,  and  urged  him  to  spend  the  evening  with  him 
in  his  own  sitting-room. 

But  Michael  shook  his  head.  He  had  no  hatred  of 
his  striped  blouse.  He  was  accustomed  to  it.  He  said 
he  would  prefer  to  await  his  brother's  arrival  in  his 
cell.  He  was  accustomed  to  that,  too.  He  felt  as  if 
he  could  not  bear  to  have  everything  torn  from  him 
at  once,  as  if  he  should  be  lost  if  all  his  landmarks  were 
changed.  He  sat  hour  by  hour,  smoking,  and  every 
now  and  then  reading  Wentworth's  telegram. 

He  tried  to  realise  it.  He  said  to  himself  over  and 
over  again :  "  I  am  free.  I  am  going  away.  Went- 
worth  is  coming  to  take  me  home."  But  it  was  no  good. 
His  mind  would  not  take  hold. 

He  looked  for  the  twentieth  time  at  Wentworth's 
telegram.  Wentworth  was  hurrying  towards  him  at 
this  moment,  would  be  travelling  all  night,  would  reach 
him  in  the  morning.  Dear,  dear  Wenty,  he  would  be 
happy  again  now. 

Michael  groaned. 


218  PRISONERS 

"  It's  no  kind  of  use.     I  can't  believe  it." 

He  tried  to  think  of  Fay.  He  should  see  her  soon, 
touch  her  hand,  hear  her  voice.  Poor  little  darling ! 
She  had  not  the  courage  of  a  mouse.  Perhaps  she 
was  a  little  glad  at  his  release.  Yes.  No  doubt  she 
had  been  pleased  to  hear  it.  He  hoped  she  would  not 
feel  shy  of  him  at  seeing  him  again.  He  hoped  she 
would  not  thank  him. 

The  door,  no  longer  locked,  was  suddenly  opened, 
and  the  head  warder  deferentially  ushered  in  a  visitor. 

A  tall,  dark  man  in  a  tri-coloured  sash  came  in,  and 
the  warder  withdrew. 

The  man  bowed  and  looked  with  fixity  at  Michael, 
who  stared  back  at  him,  dazed  and  confused.  Where 
had  he  seen  that  face  before? 

Ah!     He  remembered! 

"  I  perceive  that  you  have  not  forgotten  me,"  said 
the  Delegate.  "  It  was  I  who  arrested  you.  It  was 
to  me  that  you  confessed  to  the  murder  of  the  Marchese 
di  Maltagliala." 

"  I  remember." 

"  I  never  was  able  to  reach  any  certainty  that  you 
were  really  guilty,"  continued  the  Delegate.  "  I  was 
not  even  convinced  that  you  had  had  a  quarrel  with  the 
Marchese." 

"  I  had  no  quarrel  with  him." 

"  I  knew  that.  That  you  might  be  shielding  some- 
one occurred  forcibly  to  my  mind.  But  who?  " 

Michael  looked  steadily  at  the  official. 

"  And  there  was  blood  upon  your  hand  and  sleeve 
when  you  confessed." 

"  There  was." 


PRISONERS  219 

"  It  was  not  the  Marchese's  blood,"  said  the  Delegate, 
drawing  a  sallow  finger  across  a  blue  chin.  "  It  re- 
mained a  mystery.  I  will  own  that  it  had  not  crossed 
my  mind  that  that  fragile  and  timid  lady  had  killed  her 
husband,  and  that  as  she  at  last  confesses  you  were 
shielding  her."  The  Delegato  looked  piercingly  at 
Michael. 

Michael  was  silent. 

"  You  have  always  been  silent.  Is  not  the  moment 
come  to  speak?  " 

Michael  shook  his  head. 

The  Delegato  bowed. 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  to  discuss  the  affair  openly,"  he 
said,  "  to  relieve  my  perplexity  as  a  matter  of  courtesy. 
But  you  will  not  speak.  Then  I  will  speak  instead. 
When  first  I  read  the  Marchesa's  confession  it  came 
into  my  mind  that  the  Marchesa,  who  I  believe  was 
your  friend,  might  for  some  reason,  possibly  the  senti- 
mental devotion  of  an  older  woman  for  a  young  man — 
such  things  have  been — that  she  might  have  confessed 
on  her  deathbed  to  a  crime  which  she  had  not  committed 
in  order  to  save  you  from — this  " — he  touched  the  wall 
of  the  cell.  "  I  doubted  that  she  really  murdered  her 
husband.  But  she  did.  I  sought  out  the  maid  who 
had  been  with  her  when  the  Marchese  died,  and  she,  be- 
fore the  confession  was  published,  informed  me  that 
she  had  not  undressed  the  Marchesa  on  her  return  from 
the  Colle  Alto  party.  And  that  next  morning  part 
of  the  cloak  which  was  not  hers,  and  part  of  her  gown 
were  found  to  be  burnt  as  stated  in  her  confession.  It 
was  indeed  necessary  to  burn  them.  The  Marchesa 
murdered  the  Marchese." 


220  PRISONERS 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  I  cannot  tell  whether  you  witnessed  the  crime  or 
not.  At  first  I  thought  the  blood  on  your  hands  and 
clothes  might  have  come  from  helping  her  to  drag  the 
body  into  the  garden.  But  it  was  not  so.  At  the  time 
I  attached  a  great  importance  to  the  garden  door  being 
unlocked.  Too  great.  It  led  me  astray.  The  gardener, 
in  spite  of  his  oath  that  he  had  locked  it,  had  probably 
left  it  unlocked.  We  now  know  from  the  Marchesa 
that  the  murder  took  place  within  the  garden,  and  the 
locking  and  unlocking  of  the  door  was  an  accident 
which  looked  like  a  clue.  .  .  .  But,  if  you  wit- 
nessed the  murder,  and  wished  to  retire  without  raising 
an  alarm,  or  denouncing  that  unhappy  lady,  I  ask  my- 
self why  did  you  not  open  the  garden  door  from  within 
— the  key  was  in  the  lock,  I  saw  it — and  pass  out  on 
to  the  high  road.  Why  did  you,  instead,  try  so  hard 
to  escape  over  the  wall  behind  the  ilexes  that  you  tore 
your  hands  on  the  cut  glass  on  the  top?  I  found  the 
place  next  day.  There  was  blood  on  it.  When  you 
were  struggling  to  escape  over  that  wall  you  were  not 
anxious  to  take  the  Marchesa's  guilt  upon  your- 
self. When  you  were  hiding  behind  the  screen  in  the 
Duchess'  apartment  you  were  not — at  that  moment — 
very  determined  to  shield  the  Marchesa  from  the  con- 
sequences of  her  deed.  All  Italy  is  ringing  with  your 
quixotic,  your  chivalrous,  your  superb  action.  Never- 
theless, if  I  had  quitted  the  Duchess'  apartment,  if 
my  natural  and  trained  acuteness  had  not  made  one  last 
effort  respecting  the  screen,  I  do  not  think  you  would 
have  followed  me  into  the  garden  to  denounce  yourself  " 

The  Delegato  paused. 


PRISONERS  221 

Michael  was  quite  unmoved.  Everything  reached 
him  dimly  as  through  a  mist.  He  partly  saw  the  diffi- 
culty in  the  official's  mind,  but  it  did  not  interest  him. 
He  was  cleared.  That  was  enough. 

"  In  two  years  much  is  forgotten,"  said  the  Dele- 
gate, sententiously,  "  and  it  is,  perhaps,  I  alone  who 
recall  the  more  minute  details  of  the  case,  because  I 
was  present  and  my  interest  was  overwhelming.  I  have 
not  spoken  of  this  to  anyone  but  yourself.  I  shall  not 
speak  of  it  again.  I  have  taken  a  journey  to  discuss 
it  with  you  because  I  had  hoped  you  would  understand 
my  professional  interest  in  unravelling  that  which  re- 
mains still  obscure,  a  mystery,  which  is  daily  becoming 
to  me  a  greater  mystery  than  before  the  Marchesa's 
confession.  You  have  it  in  your  power  to  gratify  my 
natural  desire  for  elucidation  by  an  explanation  which 
can  no  longer  injure  you  in  any  way.  You  are  inno- 
cent. It  is  proved.  But  even  now  you  will  not  speak. 
You  prefer  to  preserve  your  attitude  of  silence  to  the 
end.  Good !  I  will  intrude  on  you  no  longer.  I  offer 
you  my  congratulations.  I  deplore  your  inevitable 
imprisonment.  I  withdraw." 

The  Delegato  bowed  yet  again  and  went  to  the  door. 

"  That  of  which  you  will  not  speak  was  known  to 
your  friend  the  Duke  of  Colle  Alto,"  he  said.  "  The 
Duke  knew." 

"  The  Duke  is  dead,"  said  Michael. 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  the  Delegato,  frigidly. 
He  bowed  for  the  last  time,  and  left  the  cell,  gently 
closing  the  door. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

Est-ce  done  une  monnaie  que  votre  amour,  pour  qu'il 
puisse  passer  ainsi  de  main  en  main  jusqu'a  la  mort?  Non, 
ce  n'est  pas  meme  une  monnaie ;  car  la  plus  mince  piece  d'or 
vaut  mieux  que  vous,  et  dans  quelques  mains  qu'elle  passe 
elle  garde  son  effigee. — A.  DE  MUSSET. 

WENTWORTH  came  in  the  morning,  tremulous,  eager, 
holding  Michael  by  the  shoulders,  as  he  used  to  do  when 
Michael  was  a  small  boy,  as  he  had  never  done  since. 

The  brothers  looked  long  at  each  other  with  locked 
hands,  water  in  their  eyes. 

"  Wenty,"  said  Michael  at  last,  with  his  grave  smile. 

And  that  was  all. 

They  sat  down  together  in  silence  on  the  little  bed. 
Wentworth  tried  to  speak  once  or  twice,  but  it  was  no 
use. 

"  Fay  cried  with  joy  at  the  news,"  he  said  at 
last,  looking  with  shy  hungry  love  at  his  brother. 
"  If  you  could  have  seen  her  radiant  face.  I  never  saw 
any  creature  so  changed,  so  transfigured." 

A  faint  flush  rose  to  Michael's  face. 

"  I  know  how  she  grieved  over  your  imprisonment. 
She  is  the  most  tender-hearted  woman  in  the  world.  I 
never  knew  anyone  so  sympathetic."  Wentworth  hesi- 
tated. Then  he  added  tremulously.  "  My  great  grief 
has  been  her  grief,  too.  She  helped  me  to  bear  it." 

"  I  did  not  know  she  had — minded  so  much,"  said 
Michael,  almost  inaudibly. 

222 


..  i,r 


PRISONERS  223 

"  You    might    have    guessed    it,"    said    Wentworth, 

knowing  her  to  be  what  she  is.  She  has  always  been 
so  pale  and  sad,  as  if  bowed  down  by  trouble.  But 
directly  the  news  came  that  you  were  cleared — I  went 
to  see  her  at  once — if  you  could  only  have  seen  her  face, 
her  tears  of  joy,  her  delight." 

"Did  she  send  a  message,  or  a  note?  Just  a  line. 
Perhaps  you  have  a  letter  with  you." 

"  No,  she  did  not  write,"  said  Wentworth,  self  con- 
scious, but  beaming.  "  There  was  not  time.  There 
was  time  for  nothing.  It  was  all  such  a  rush.  I  only 
saw  her  on  my  way  to  the  station.  But  I  know  she 
won't  mind  my  telling  you,  Michael — you  ought  to 
know  first  of  anyone — it  all  seems  so  wonderful.  But 
I  daresay — no,  I  see  you  have  guessed  it — I  daresay  I 
have  said  things  in  my  letters  that  showed  you  it  was 
coming — it  was  the  grief  about  you  that  first  drew  us 
together.  Fay  and  I  are  going  to  be  married." 

Michael  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"  Everything  has  come  at  once,"  said  Wentworth. 
"  I  have  you  again.  And  I  have  her.  I've  nothing 
left  to  wish  for." 

Michael  did  not  leave  the  prison  in  the  gondola  which 
had  brought  Wentworth,  and  which  was  waiting  to  take 
them  both  away.  The  excitement  of  his  brother's 
arrival  had  proved  too  great,  and  he  fell  from  one 
fainting  fit  into  another.  Wentworth  was  greatly 
alarmed,  but  the  doctor  was  reassuring  and  cheerful. 
He  said  that  Michael  had  borne  the  news  with  almost 
unnatural  calmness,  but  that  the  shock  must  have  been 
great,  and  a  breakdown  was  to  be  expected.  He 


224  PRISONERS 

laughed  at  Wentworth's  anxiety  even  while  he  minis- 
tered to  Michael,  and  assured  him  that  no  one  in  his 
experience  had  died  of  joy. 

But  later  in  the  evening  when  Wentworth,  somewhat 
pacified,  had  returned  to  Venice  for  the  night,  the 
doctor  felt  yet  again  for  the  twentieth  time  that  the 
young  Englishman  baffled  him. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  actually  relieved  when 
the  kind,  awkward,  tender  elder  brother  had  reluctantly 
taken  his  departure,  promising  to  come  back  early  in 
the  morning. 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself,  you  will  be  quite  well 
enough  to  leave  to-morrow,"  the  doctor  said  to  him 
many  times.  "  I  expected  this  momentary  collapse.  It 
is  nothing." 

Michael's  eyes  dwelt  on  the  kind  face  and  then  closed. 
There  was  that  in  them  which  the  doctor  could  not 
fathom. 

He  took  the  food  that  was  pressed  on  him,  and  then 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  made  as  if  he  slept. 

And  the  walls  bent  over  him,  and  whispered  to  him, 
"  Stay  with  us.  We  are  not  so  cruel  as  the  world 
outside." 

And  that  night  the  dying  convict  in  the  next  cell, 
nearly  as  close  on  freedom  as  Michael,  heard  all  through 
the  night  a  low  sound  of  strangled  anguish  that  ever 
stifled  itself  into  silence,  and  ever  broke  forth  anew, 
from  dark  to  dawn. 

The  next  morning  Michael  went  feebly  down  the 
prison  steps,  calm  and  wan,  leaning  on  Wentworth's 
careful  arm,  and  smiling  affectionately  at  him. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

Les  caracteres  faibles  ne  montrent  de  la  decision  que 
quand  il  s'agit  de  faire  un  sottise. — DANIEL  DARC. 

A  WEEK  or  two  after  the  news  of  Michael's  proved 
innocence  had  convulsed  Hampshire,  and  before  Michael 
and  Wentworth  had  returned  to  Barford,  Aunt  Aggie 
might  have  been  seen  on  a  fine  May  afternoon  walking 
slowly  towards  "  The  Towers."  She  had  let  her  cot- 
tage at  Saundersfoot  for  an  unusually  long  period,  and 
was  marking  time  with  the  Blores.  Whatever  Aunt 
Mary's  faults  might  be  she  was  always  ready  to  help 
her  sister  in  this  practical  manner,  when  Aunt  Aggie 
was  anxious  to  add  to  the  small,  feebly  frittered  away 
income,  on  which  her  muddled,  impecunious  existence 
depended. 

In  spite  of  the  most  pertinent  remarks  to  the  con- 
trary from  her  sister,  Aunt  Aggie  believed  herself  to 
be  an  unsurpassed  manager  of  restricted  means.  She 
constantly  advised  young  married  couples  as  to  the 
judicious  expenditure  of  money,  and  pressed  on  Mag- 
dalen the  necessity  of  retrenching  in  exasperating 
directions,  namely,  where  a  minute  economy  entailed 
a  colossal  inconvenience. 

In  her  imagination  she  saw  herself  continually  con- 
sulted, depended  on,  strenuously  implored  to  give  her 
opinion  on  matters  of  the  utmost  delicacy,  fervently 
blessed  for  her  powerful  spiritual  assistance  of  souls 

225 


226  PRISONERS 

in  jeopardy,  and  always  gracefully  attributing  the 
marvellous  results  of  her  intervention  to  a  Higher 
Power  of  which  she  was  but  the  unworthy  channel. 

These  imaginary  scenes  were  the  unfailing  solace 
of  Aunt  Aggie's  somewhat  colourless  life,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  them  in  the  background  gave  her  a  certain 
meek  and  even  patient  self-importance,  the  basis  of 
which  was  hidden  from  Lady  Blore. 

Aunt  Aggie  had  also  another  perennial  source  of 
chastened  happiness  in  recalling  the  romance  of  her 
youth,  those  halcyon  days  before  the  Archdeacon  had 
been  unsuccessfully  harpooned  and  put  to  flight  by 
Lady  Blore. 

Her  clerical  love  affair  perfumed  her  conversation, 
as  a  knife  which  has  once  associated  with  an  onion 
inevitably  reveals,  even  in  estrangement,  that  bygone 
intimacy. 

No  one  could  breathe  the  word  Margate  without 
Aunt  Aggie  remarking  that  she  had  had  a  dear  friend 
who  had  evinced  a  great  partiality  for  Margate.  Were 
the  clergy  mentioned  in  her  presence  with  the  scant 
respect  with  which  the  ministry  and  other  secular  bodies 
have  to  put  up,  Aunt  Aggie  vibrated  with  indignation. 
She  had  known  men  of  the  highest  talents  holding  pre- 
ferment in  the  Church. 

But  in  her  imagination  her  affair  of  the  heart  had 
passed  beyond  reminiscence.  Far  from  being  buried 
in  the  past  it  remained  the  chief  factor  in  her  life, 
colouring  and  shaping  the  whole  of  her  future. 

Aunt  Aggie  could  at  any  moment  dip  into  a  kind  of 
sequel  to  that  early  history.  In  the  sequel  the  Arch- 
deacon's wife  was,  of  course,  to  die;  but,  owing  to 


PRISONERS  227 

circumstances  which  Aunt  Aggie  had  not  yet  thor- 
oughly worked  out,  that  unhappy  lady  was  first  to 
undergo  tortures  in  some  remote  locality,  nursed  de- 
votedly— poor  thing — by  Aunt  Aggie.  The  result  of 
her  ministrations  was  never  in  doubt  from  the  first. 
The  Archdeacon's  wife  was,  of  course,  to  succumb, 
calling  down  blessings  on  the  devoted  stranger  at  her 
bedside,  with  the  enigmatical  smile  which  spoke  of  some 
sacred  sorrow. 

Aunt  Aggie  had  shed  many  delicious  tears  over  that 
deathbed  scene,  and  the  chastened  grief  of  the  saintly 
Archdeacon,  quite  overshadowed  by  his  boundless  grati- 
tude to  herself.  At  this  crisis  his  overwhelming  deso- 
lation wrung  from  him — with  gross  disloyalty  to  the 
newly  dead — a  few  disjointed  sentences  which  revealed 
only  too  clearly  how  unsuited  to  him  his  wife  had  been, 
how  little  she  had  understood  him,  how  lonely  his 
wedded  life  had  been.  She  had  evidently  been  one  of 
those  tall  thin  maypoles  of  women  who  have  but  little 
tenderness  in  them. 

Aunt  Aggie,  after  giving  the  children  a  sample  of 
what  a  real  mother  could  be,  was  to  retire  to  her  little 
home  at  Saundersfoot.  Here  the  real  joy  of  the  situa- 
tion was  to  begin. 

After  a  decent  interval  the  Archdeacon  was  to  be 
constantly  visiting  Saundersfoot,  was  to  be  observed 
visiting  Aunt  Aggie  at  Saundersfoot,  singling  her  out 
from  among  the  numerous  spinsters  of  that  watering- 
place  to  make  her  the  object  of  reverent  attentions. 
Others  younger  and  better  looking  than  Aunt  Aggie — 
especially  Miss  Barnett,  the  doctor's  sister,  who,  it 
was  whispered,  wore  an  artificial  cushion  from  Doug- 


228  PRISONERS 

las's  under  her  hair — were  to  set  their  caps  or  cushions 
at  the  dignified  Archdeacon,  seen  pacing  the  sands. 
But  it  was  all  of  no  avail.  He  had  eyes  for  no  one  but 
the  gentle,  retiring  Miss  Bellairs.  Aunt  Aggie  was  to 
become  the  object  of  burning  jealousy  and  detraction 
on  the  part  of  the  female — that  is  to  say  almost  the 
whole — population  of  Saundersfoot.  But  she  herself, 
while  envious  calumny  raged  round  her,  went  on  her 
way  calm  and  grave  as  ever. 

But  the  proposal  long  warded  off  could  not  be  par- 
ried forever.  The  frenzied  passion  of  the  Archdeacon 
was  at  last  not  to  be  restrained.  Aunt  Aggie  had  in 
her  mind  a  set  of  proposals,  all  good,  out  of  which  it 
became  harder  and  harder  as  time  went  on  to  select 
one.  But  her  answer  was  ever  the  same,  a  pained  but 
firm  refusal.  She  was  happy  in  her  lot.  She  was 
greatly  needed  where  she  was.  She  did  not  wish  to 
marry.  She  was  no  longer  young.  This  last  reason 
was  an  enormous  concession  to  realism  on  Aunt  Aggie's 
part. 

Then  came  the  cream  of  the  whole  story.  The  Arch- 
deacon was  to  pine  secretly.  His  work  was  to  be  neg- 
lected. He  was  to  be  threatened  with  a  nervous  break- 
down. He  was  to  confide  his  sorrow  to  the  paternal 
bosom  of  his  Bishop.  When  Aunt  Aggie  was  in  her 
normal  state  it  was  the  Bishop  in  whom  the  Archdeacon 
was  to  confide.  But  sometimes  in  the  evenings  after  a 
glass  of  cowslip  wine,  her  imagination  took  a  bolder 
flight.  The  Archbishop  himself  was  to  be  the  confi- 
dant of  the  distracted  cleric.  This  presented  no  real 
difficulty  after  the  first  moment,  for  the  Archbishop  was 
in  the  flower  of  his  age — the  Archdeacon's  age — and 


PRISONERS  229 

might  easily  have  been  at  school  with  him.  Aunt  Aggie 
had  once  seen  Lambeth  from  a  cab  window  as  she  passed 
over  Westminster  Bridge.  Under  that  historic  tower 
she  heard  the  first  subject  of  the  King  urge  his  brother 
prelate  to  take  heart,  promising  assistance. 

We  will  pass  over  Aunt  Aggie's  amazed  reception  of  a 
cordial  invitation  to  stay  at  Lambeth,  her  hesitating  ac- 
ceptance, her  arrival,  the  magnificent  banquet,  crowded 
with  ministers  and  bishops,  the  fact  that  the  Archbishop 
himself  singled  her  out  as  the  object  of  courtly  though 
somewhat  anxious  attentions.  And  then  after  dinner 
Aunt  Aggie,  in  her  plum-coloured  satin,  was  to  be  uncon- 
sciously but  skilfully  withdrawn  from  the  glittering 
throng  by  the  Archbishop.  And  in  his  study  he  was 
to  make  a  great,  a  fervent  appeal  to  her.  Aunt  Aggie 
had  bought  a  photograph  of  him  in  order  to  deaden  the 
shock  of  this  moment.  But  nevertheless  whenever  she 
reached  this  point  she  was  always  really  frightened. 
Her  hands  really  trembled.  The  Archbishop  was  to 
ask  her  with  tempered  indignation  how  much  longer 
she  intended  to  nullify  the  labours  of  his  ablest  col- 
league, how  much  longer  her  selfish  predilection  for 
celibacy  was  to  wreck  the  life  and  paralyse  the  powers 
of  a  broken-hearted  man.  Her  cruelty  was  placed  be- 
fore her  in  glowing  colours.  She  was  observed  to  waver, 
to  falter.  A  tear  was  seen  in  spite  of  her  marvellous 
self-control  to  course  down  her  cheek.  The  eye  of  an 
Archbishop  misses  nothing.  With  an  ejaculation  of 
profound  relief  he  beckons  to  a  distant  figure  which 
appears  in  a  doorway.  The  Archdeacon  in  his  evening 
gaiters  rushes  in.  Aunt  Aggie  gives  way ! 

After  this  final  feat  of  the  imagination  Aunt  Aggie 


230  PRISONERS 

generally  felt  so  worn  out  by  emotion  that  food  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  her. 

On  this  occasion  she  sat  down  quivering  on  a  heap  of 
stones  by  the  roadside,  and  drew  forth  a  biscuit  which 
she  had  secreted  at  luncheon  at  the  Vicarage  an  hour 
before.  It  must  be  owned  that  she  was  fond  of  food, 
though  not  in  the  same  way  that  most  of  us  are  addicted 
to  it.  She  liked  eating  buns  out  of  paper  bags  at  odd 
moments  in  the  open  air,  and  nibbling  a  sponge  cake 
half  forgotten  and  suddenly  found  in  a  drawer  with 
her  handkerchiefs.  But  in  justice  to  her  it  ought  to 
be  added  that  she  seemed  only  to  care  for  the  kind  of 
provender  which  yielded  the  largest  increment  in  the 
way  of  crumbs. 

As  she  sat  and  nibbled  an  uneasy  recollection  stole 
across  her  mind. 

This  recollection  was  becoming  more  disconcerting 
day  by  day.  And  yet  she  had  acted  for  the  best. 
That  fact  did  not  insure  to  her  immunity  from  blame  on 
the  part  of  that  awful  personage,  her  sister  Mary. 
Good  intentions  had  never  yet  received  their  due  as 
extenuating  circumstances  in  Lady  Blore's  sweeping 
judgments. 

If  a  certain  secret  chivalrous  action  of  Aunt  Aggie's 
*'  turned  out  wrong,"  she  knew  well  the  intonation  in 
which  Lady  Blore  would  ask  her  why  she  had  been  such 
a  fool.  Nevertheless  she,  Aunt  Aggie,  had  only  done 
with  consummate  tact  what  Mary  herself  had  contem- 
plated doing  in  her  rough  way,  and  had  been  persuaded 
not  to  do. 

Some  weeks  ago  Aunt  Aggie  had  concocted  in  secret, 
recopied  about  twenty  times,  and  had  finally  despatched 


PRISONERS  231 

a  letter  to  Lord  Lossiemouth  anent  Magdalen.  It  had 
been  the  boldest  action  of  her  life.  At  first,  even  after 
she  had  seen  that  she  was  the  only  person  able  to  deal 
adequately  with  so  delicate  a  matter,  she  had  feared 
that  she  would  not  have  the  strength  to  perform  her 
mission.  But  strength  had  apparently  been  lent  to 
her  for  the  occasion.  The  letter  had  actually  been 
posted. 

The  moment  it  was  irrevocably  gone  Aunt  Aggie  fell 
into  a  panic.  Supposing  it  failed  in  its  object,  and  that 
Algernon  or  Mary  discovered  what  she  had  done.  She 
could  not  even  face  such  a  possibility.  But  then,  sup- 
posing on  the  other  hand  that  her  missive  united  two 
loving,  estranged  hearts,  and  that  dear  Magdalen  owed 
her  happiness — and  a  titled  happiness — to  her.  Then 
Algernon  and  Mary  would  be  forced  to  admit  that  she 
had  shown  a  courage  and  devotion  greater  than  theirs. 
"  We  only  talked,  you  acted,"  they  would  both  say, 
and  she  would  thenceforth  be  recognised  in  her  true 
light,  as  an  incomparable  counsellor,  and  a  judicious, 
far-seeing  friend. 

But  three  weeks  had  elapsed  since  Aunt  Aggie,  steal- 
ing out  alone,  had  dropped  that  momentous  letter  into 
the  village  post-box.  Nothing  had  happened.  She 
had  not  even  received  an  answer.  She  was  becoming 
frightened  and  anxious.  Was  he  secretly  married? 
She  wished  she  had  thought  of  that  possibility  before 
she  posted  the  letter. 

Many  simple-minded  men  of  disengaged  affections, 
cheerfully  pursuing  their  virtuous  avocations,  would 
be  thunderstruck  if  they  knew  the  dark  suspicions  har- 
boured against  them  in  spinster  bosoms,  that  they  are 


232  PRISONERS 

•concealing  some  discreditable  matrimonial  secret,  which 
alone  can  account  for  their — well — their  extraordinary 
behaviour  in  not  coming  forward! 

It  has  actually  been  said  that  real  life  is  not  always 
like  a  novel.  This  feebly  false  assertion  was  dis- 
proved forever  in  Aunt  Aggie's  mind  by  the  sight  of  a 
dog-cart  coming  rapidly  toward  her  from  the  direction 
of  Lostford.  She  glanced  indifferently  at  it  as  it 
approached,  and  then  her  pale  eyes  became  glued 
to  it.  In  the  dog-cart  sat  Everard  Constable,  now 
Lord  Lossiemouth.  She  had  not  seen  him  for  fifteen 
years,  but  nevertheless  she  recognised  him  instantly. 
There  was  no  doubt  it  was  he:  thickened  and  coarsened, 
but  still  he.  He  whirled  past  leaning  back  in  his  seat, 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left. 

Aunt  Aggie's  heart  gave  a  thump  that  nearly  upset 
her  equilibrium.  The  biscuit  dropped  onto  the  road, 
with  a  general  upheaval  of  crumbs  from  all  parts  of 
her  agitated  person. 

Lord  Lossiemouth! 

Going  in  the  direction  of  Priesthope ! 

Her  letter! 

She  nearly  swooned  with  joy  and  pride. 

Now  Mary  and  Algernon,  now  everyone  would  be- 
lieve in  her. 

She  raised  herself  from  the  heap  of  stones  and  with 
trembling  legs  hurried  towards  "  The  Towers."  She 
must  tell  Mary  at  once. 

She  found  Lady  Blore  seated  at  her  writing-table 
in  the  drawing-room,  which  was  choked  by  the  eastern 
and  Japanese  impedimenta,  the  draperies,  the  krises, 
the  metal  bowls,  the  ivory  boxes,  which  an  Indian  career 


233 

seems  so  inevitably  to  entail.  Sir  John  had  brought 
back  crates  of  the  kind  of  foreign  bric-a-brac  cheap 
imitations  of  which  throng  London  shop  windows.  The 
little  entrance  hall  was  stuffy  with  skins.  Horned  skulls 
garnished  the  walls,  pleading  silently  for  decent  burial. 
Even  the  rugs  had  once  been  bears. 

Aunt  Mary  was  bored  with  her  drawing-room,  which 
looked  like  a  stall  at  a  bazaar,  but,  to  her  credit  be 
it  said,  that  she  had  never  made  any  change  in  it,  except 
to  remove  a  brass  idol  from  the  writing-table,  at  which 
she  was  at  this  moment  sitting. 

By  one  of  those  sudden  instincts  which  make  people 
like  Aunt  Aggie  the  despair  of  those  with  whom  they 
live,  she  instantaneously  conceived  the  idea  (for  no  rea- 
son except  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  own  letter)  that 
her  sister  was  at  that  moment  writing  to  Lord  Lossie- 
mouth. 

She  "  had  a  feeling  "  that  this  was  the  case.  The 
feeling  became  in  a  second  a  rooted  conviction.  The 
butler  came  in,  arranged  an  uncomfortable  Indian  table, 
placed  a  brass  tray  with  tea  things  on  it  before  Lady 
Blore,  and  asked  if  there  were  any  more  letters  for  the 
post.  Aunt  Mary  was  in  the  act  of  giving  him  one 
when  Aunt  Aggie  intervened. 

"  Don't,"  she  said  in  wild  agitation,  clasping  her 
hands.  "  Mary,  I  beg  of  you,  I  conjure  you  not  to 
post  that  letter." 

"Why  not?  I  have  resolved  to  give  him  another 
chance." 

"  Keep  it  back  one  post,  I  implore  you.  I  have  a 
reason." 

Aunt   Mary    looked    attentively    at    her    sister,    and 


234  PRISONERS 

took  back  the  letter.  It  was  not  like  her  to  give  way. 
She  seemed  less  overbearing  than  usual. 

"Well?  Why  not  employ  him  again?"  she  said 
wearily.  "  The  Irish  butter  is  the  cheapest  after  all. 
Why  do  you  make  such  a  point  of  my  leaving  him." 

Aunt  Aggie  was  entirely  nonplussed.  A  thousand 
similar  experiences  had  never  lessened  the  shock  of  the 
discrepancy  between  what  she  expected  her  sister  to 
say,  and  what  she  actually  said. 

"  I  thought,  I  thought,"  she  stammered,  "  I  felt  sure 
that,  I  see  now  I  was  wrong,  but  I  had  a  conviction 
that  that  letter — you  see  I  knew  you  were  thinking  of 
writing — was  to,  was  in  short  to  Lord  Lossiemouth." 

Aunt  Mary's  face  became  magenta  colour. 

"  To  Lord  Lossiemouth !  Why  should  you  think  I 
was  writing  to  him?  " 

"  Well,  I  could  not  help  knowing — don't  you  remem- 
ber how  you  discussed  the  subject  with  me  and  dear 
Magdalen  some  weeks  ago? — that  the  subject  of  a 
judicious  and  dignified  letter  was  in  your  mind." 

"  I  was  careful  not  to  mention  the  subject  to  Mag- 
dalen in  your  presence.  I  see  now  that  you  must  have 
listened  outside  the  door." 

Aunt  Aggie  experienced  a  second  shock.  How  did 
Mary  always  spy  out  these  things? 

"  I  can't  think,"  continued  Lady  Blore,  "  how  you 
can  lower  yourself  to  eavesdrop  in  the  way  you  do ; 
and  if  you  must  do  these  underhand  actions,  why  you 
don't  conceal  them  better.  When  you  read  a  private 
letter  of  mine  the  other  day,  because  I  inadvertently 
left  it  for  a  moment  on  my  writing-table " 

"  You  always  say  you  lock  up  your  private  letters, 


PRISONERS  235 

you  do,  indeed,  Mary.  Be  fair.  I  could  not  tell  it 
was  private." 

"  You  would  have  been  wiser  not  to  have  alluded  next 
day  to  its  contents.  If  you  had  not  done  so  I  might 
not  have  known  you  had  read  it." 

Aunt  Aggie  burst  into  tears. 

"  The  truth  is  I  am  not  secretive  like  you,  Mary," 
she  said  between  her  sobs.  "  It  is  as  natural  to  me  to 
be  open  and  trustful  with  those  I  love  as  it  is  for  you 
to  be  the  reverse.  Whatever  I  do  you  think  wrong. 
But  perhaps  some  day — and  that  before  long — you  will 
be  forced  to  admit " 

At  this  moment  the  drawing-room  door  opened  and 
Colonel  Bellairs  came  in.  He  often  came  to  tea  at 
"  The  Towers,"  though  the  meeting  seldom  passed  off 
without  a  sharp  brush  with  Lady  Blore. 

"  Draw  up  that  chair,  Algernon,"  said  that  lady, 
with  grim  but  instant  cordiality.  "  The  tea  will  be 
ready  in  a  moment." 

Colonel  Bellairs  looked  more  floridly  handsome  than 
usual.  He  was  evidently  in  a  state  of  supreme  self- 
satisfaction. 

"  Fine  day,"  he  said,  "  for  the  time  of  year." 

At  this  moment  a  small  parchment  face,  and  bent 
figure  leaning  on  a  stick,  might  have  been  seen  peering 
in  through  the  closed  windows.  Sir  John  looked  dispas- 
sionately at  the  family  group,  and  shook  his  head. 
Then  he  hobbled  back  to  his  chair  under  the  cedar.  Tea 
was  evidently  a  meal  to  be  dispensed  with  this  after- 
noon. 

"  I  have  news  for  you,"  said  Colonel  Bellairs,  ex- 
panding his  chest. 


236  PRISONERS 

Lady  Blore  held  the  tea-pot  suspended. 

"  Everard  Constable — Lossiemouth,  I  should  say — 
is  at  this  moment  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  at  Priest- 
hope,  alone  with  Magdalen." 

Colonel  Bellairs  was  not  disappointed  in  the  effect 
of  his  words  on  his  audience. 

Aunt  Aggie  trembled  and  looked  proudly  guilty. 
Lady  Blore  put  down  the  tea-pot  suddenly,  and  said, 
"  Thank  God !  " 

Aunt  Aggie,  her  mouth  open  to  speak,  began  to  choke. 
She  looked  piteously  from  her  brother  to  her  sister, 
struggling  in  vain  to  articulate.  It  was  too  cruel  that 
she  should  be  bereft  of  speech  at  this  supreme  moment. 

Lady  Blore  turned  putty  pale  and  magenta  colour 
alternately.  A  great  relief  softened  her  hard  face. 
There  were  actually  tears  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  said 
majestically,  but  with  a  tremor  in  her  metallic  voice: 

"  I  am  not  surprised." 

"  It  is  my  doing,"  shrieked  Aunt  Aggie,  in  the  stran- 
gled squeak  in  which  we  always  explain  that  it  is  "  only 
a  crumb  "  gone  wrong.  And  she  relapsed  into  a  fresh 
spasm. 

Lady  Blore  sternly  bade  her  be  silent.  Colonel  Bel- 
lairs  was  slightly  annoyed. 

"  It  is  no  use,  Mary,  your  saying  you  are  not  sur- 
prised, for  you  are,"  he  said  judicially,  "  and  really," 
relapsing  into  complacency,  "  so  am  I  in  a  way.  It  is 
fifteen  years  since  I  forbade  Everard  the  house.  I  fear 
that  I  was  unduly  harsh.  I  dismissed  him,  so  it  was 
for  me  to  recall  him.  Now  that  the  cat  is  out  of  the 
bag  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  wrote  to  him  a  few 
weeks  ago." 


PRISONERS  237 

"  You — wrote— to — him !  "  said  Aunt  Mary  in  great 
agitation.  "  Algernon,  you  sent  me  word  by  Magda- 
len that  you  refused  to  meddle  in  the  matter." 

"  I  daresay  I  did.  I  may  not  have  liked  the  tone  you 
took  about  it,  Mary.  You  are  so  devilish  high-handed. 
In  short,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  was  annoyed 
by  your  interference  in  the  matter.  But  after  mature 
consideration — I  turned  the  matter  over  in  my  mind — 
I  was  not  the  least  influenced  by  your  long-winded 
epistle — that  in  fact  rather  put  me  off  than  otherwise 
— still  after  a  time  I  wrote  a  manly,  straightforward 
letter  to  Everard,  not  blinking  the  facts,  and  I  told 
him  that  if  his  feelings  were  unchanged — mark  that — 
as  I  had  reason  to  believe  Magdalen's  were — he  was  at 
liberty  to  come  to  Priesthope  and  resume  cordial  rela- 
tions with  us  all.  You  observe  that  I  only  asked  him  to 
come  if  his  feelings  were  unchanged.  He  is  there 
now" 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  varying  emo- 
tions which  devastated  Lady  Blore,  as  her  brother  made 
his  announcement.  Her  hands  trembled  so  much  that 
she  was  obliged  to  give  up  any  pretence  of  holding  her 
cup.  It  chattered  against  its  saucer. 

"  When  did  you  write?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  About  three  weeks  ago." 

Aunt  Mary  seemed  to  make  a  mental  calculation. 

"  It  is  my  doing.  I  wrote  a  month  ago,"  gasped 
Aunt  Aggie.  "  Algernon,  you  must  not  take  the  credit 
of  it.  I  waited  till  you  and  Mary  had  decided  not  to 
write — you  know,  Mary,  you  told  Magdalen  you  would 
not — and  then — and  then — I  could  not  stand  by  and  see 
that  dear  child's  happiness  slip  away  for  want  of  one 


238  PRISONERS 

bold  word,  one  brave  friend  to  say  for  her  what  she 
could  not  say  for  herself, — I  have  seen  so  many  lives 
wrecked  for  want  of  a  sympathetic  hand  to  draw  two 
severed  hearts  together, — that  I  wrote.  I  wrote  a 
month  ago.  A  week  before  you  did." 

"  I  might  have  known  you  would  do  some  folly,"  said 
Colonel  Bellairs  with  contempt.  "  I  am  glad  this  did 
not  come  to  my  ears  earlier,  or  I  should  have  been  very 
angry.  It  was  most  unsuitable,  most  undignified,  that 
you  and  I  should  both  write.  But,"  it  was  evidently 
impossible  for  him  to  be  seriously  annoyed  by  anything 
on  this  particular  afternoon,  "  all's  well  that  ends  well. 
We  will  say  no  more  about  it,  Aggie.  Don't  cry.  You 
can't  help  being  a  fool.  But  don't  do  anything  of  that 
kind,  or  of  any  kind  again.  I  might  not  be  so  easy 
going  next  time." 

Lady  Blore  drank  down  a  large  cup  of  tea.  Her 
black  silk  bosom  heaved.  Contrary  to  all  precedent 
she  did  not  turn  on  her  quaking  sister. 

"  Where  are  Fay  and  Bessie  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Fay  is  spending  the  afternoon  with  the  Carters, 
and  Bessie  is  out  somewhere,  I  don't  know  where.  But 
I  saw  her  start  after  luncheon." 

"  How  fortunate !  Then  you  knew  he  was 
coming?  " 

"  Yes.  I  had  a  telegram  from  him  this  morning 
saying  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  would  come 
over  this  afternoon." 

"  Of  course  you  warned  Magdalen  ?  " 

"  Not  I.  I  knew  better  than  that.  She  has  a  cold, 
so  I  knew  she  could  not  go  out.  So  directly  I  had  seen 
him  drive  up  I  came  off  here.  I  did  not  think  I  was 


PRISONERS  239 

particularly  wanted  at  home.  Two  is  company  and 
three's  none." 

"  Oh,  Algernon,  what  tact !  Most  men  would  never 
have  thought  of  that,"  said  Aunt  Aggie. 

"  Have  another  cup,  Algernon,"  said  Lady  Blore 
graciously. 

Colonel  Bellairs  stroked  his  moustache.  He  had  an- 
other cause,  a  secret  one,  for  self-complacency.  At  last, 
after  many  rebuffs  from  charming  women,  thirty  years 
his  junior,  he  was  engaged  to  be  married.  Should  he 
mention  it?  Was  not  this  a  most  propitious  moment? 
Yes?  No.  Perhaps  better  not.  Another  time!  The 
lady  had  accepted  him  some  weeks  ago,  but  had  ex- 
pressed altruistic  doubts  as  to  whether  she  could  play 
a  mother's  part  to  daughters  as  old  as  herself,  whether 
in  short,  much  as  she  craved  for  their  society,  they 
might  not  feel  happier,  more  independent  in  a  separate 
establishment,  however  modest.  It  was  on  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  what  he  called  "  providing  for  the  girls,"  that 
Colonel  Bellairs  had  written  to  Lord  Lossiemouth. 

The  renewal  of  his  engagement  to  Magdalen  would 
pave  the  way  to  Colonel  Bellairs's  marriage.  He  had 
already  decided  that  Bessie  would  live  with  Magdalen, 
who  would  take  her  out.  Fay  had  her  jointure.  But 
he  had  a  not  unfounded  fear  that  his  second  nuptials 
would  be  regarded  with  profound  disapproval,  even 
with  execration,  by  his  sisters. 

Magdalen  alone  knew  about  it  as  yet.  She  had  taken 
the  news,  which  her  father  had  feared  would  crush  her 
to  the  earth,  very  tranquilly.  She  was  a  person  of 
more  frigid  affections  than  he  had  supposed.  He  had 
already  asked  her  to  break  the  news  to  Fay  and  Bessie. 


240  PRISONERS 

Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  let  her  break  it  to  his 
sisters  too.  If  he  did  it  himself  they  might,  at  the 
first  moment,  say  things  they  might  afterwards  re- 
gret. Yes,  he  would  leave  the  announcement  to  Mag- 
dalen. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

Our  chain  on  silence  clanks. 
Time  leers  between,  above  his  twiddling  thumbs. 

— GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

LORD  LOSSIEMOUTH  had  come  into  his  kingdom.  He  was 
rich,  but  not  vulgarly  so.  He  had  a  great  position,  and 
what  his  artistic  nature  valued  even  more,  the  possession 
of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  England.  The 
Lossiemouth  pictures  and  heirlooms,  the  historic  house 
with  its  wonderful  gardens — all  these  were  his. 

He  had  at  first  been  quite  dazed  by  the  magnitude  of 
his  good  fortune.  When  it  came  to  him  it  found  him 
somewhat  sore  and  angry  at  a  recent  rebuff  which  had 
wounded  his  vanity  not  a  little.  But  the  excitement  of 
his  great  change  of  fortune  soon  healed  what  little 
smart  remained. 

A  few  months  before  he  succeeded,  he  had  fallen  in 
love,  not  for  the  first  time  by  many  times,  with  a  woman 
who  seemed  to  meet  his  requirements.  She  was  gentle, 
submissive,  pretty,  easily  led,  refined,  not  an  heiress, 
but  by  no  means  penniless. 

To  his  surprise  and  indignation  she  had  refused  him, 
evidently  not  without  a  certain  tepid  regret.  He  discov- 
ered that  the  mother  had  other  views  for  her  daughter, 
and  that  the  daughter,  though  she  inclined  towards  him, 
was  quite  incapable  or  even  desirous  of  opposing  her 
mother.  She  was  gentleness  and  ph' ability  itself.  These 
qualities,  so  admirable  in  domestic  life,  have  a  tendency 

241 


242  PRISONERS 

of  which  he  had  not  thought  before  to  make  their 
charming  owner,  if  a  hitch  occurs,  subside  into  be- 
coming another  man's  wife.  If  only  women  could  be 
adamant  until  they  reach  the  altar,  and  like  wax 
afterwards. 

When  everything  bitter  that  could  be  said  at  the 
expense  of  women  had  been  ably  expressed,  Lord  Lossie- 
mouth  withdrew.  A  month  later,  when  he  was  making 
an  angry  walking  tour  in  Hungary,  he  learned  from  an 
English  paper,  already  many  days  old,  of  the  two  deaths 
which  effected  his  great  change  of  fortune.  He  com- 
municated with  his  lawyer,  arranged  to  return  by  a 
certain  date,  and  continued  his  tour  for  another  month. 

On  his  return  he  had  gone  at  once  to  Lossiemouth, 
which  he  had  visited  occasionally  as  a  poor  and  peppery 
and  not  greatly  respected  relation.  Business  of  all 
kinds  instantly  engulfed  him.  He  was  impatient,  dif- 
ficult, distrait,  slightly  pleased  with  himself  at  showing 
so  little  gratification  at  his  magnificent  inheritance. 

On  the  third  day  he  sorted  out  the  letters  which 
looked  like  personal  ones,  from  among  a  heap  of  cor- 
respondence, the  accumulation  of  many  weeks. 

Quantities  of  envelopes  were  torn  open,  and  the  con- 
tents thrown  aside,  begging  letters,  decently  veiled 
congratulations  from  "  old  friends  "  who  had  not  so 
far  shown  any  particular  desire  to  make  their  friend- 
ship a  joy  to  him. 

Presently  he  came  upon  a  long,  closely  written  letter 
of  several  sheets,  in  a  slanting  hand,  which  he  was  about 
to  dismiss  as  another  begging  letter  when  his  eye  fell 
on  the  signature.  Bellows?  Bulteel?  Buller?  Bel- 
lairs? 


PRISONERS  243 

Aunt  Aggie's  signature  was  quite  illegible.  It  was 
an  arranged  squiggle  painfully  acquired  in  youth, 
which  through  life  had  resulted  in  all  kinds  of  difficul- 
ties with  tradespeople,  and  in  continual  annoyance  and 
inconvenience  to  herself.  Letters  and  parcels  were  fre- 
quently directed  to  her  as  A.  Buller,  Esq.  She  could 
only  account  for  this  mistake  by  the  business-like  nature 
of  her  style  and  handwriting.  She  often  told  her 
friends  that,  unless  people  knew  her  personally,  her 
letters  were  generally  believed  to  be  a  man's. 

It  had  never  struck  Aunt  Aggie  that  Lord  Lossie- 
mouth  might  possibly,  in  an  interval  of  fifteen  years, 
have  forgotten  who  A.  Bellows  might  be. 

But  the  words  "  my  beloved  niece  Magdalen " 
strongly  underlined,  and  the  postmark  on  the  en- 
velope, showed  him  who  A.  Bellairs  was.  He  thought 
he  remembered  an  old  aunt  who  lived  near  Priesthope. 

He  read  the  long  sentimental  effusion  and  bit  his 
lip. 

Ah,  me!  Was  that  half -forgotten,  dim-in-the-dis- 
tance  boyish  love  of  his  to  be  raked  up  again  now ! 

He  sighed  impatiently.  Why  had  Fate  parted  him 
and  Magdalen?  He  still  regretted  her  in  a  way,  when 
he  was  depressed  or  harassed,  or  disgusted  with  the 
world  in  general;  and  he  was  often  depressed  and  har- 
assed and  disgusted. 

More  letters.  What  business  had  people  to  give 
him  the  trouble  of  reading  them?  The  floor  was  be- 
coming strewn  with  his  correspondence.  The  empty 
fireplace  had  become  a  target  for  crumpled  balls  of 
paper. 

A  short  one  in  a  large,  scrambling,  illiterate  hand 


244  PRISONERS 

with  a  signature  that  might  mean  anything.  That  tall 
capital,  shaped  like  a  ham,  was  perhaps  a  B. 

The  letter  was  written  on  Priesthope  notepaper. 
"  My  daughter  Magdalen" 

This,  then,  was  from  Colonel  Bellairs. 

It  was  not  such  a  very  bad  letter,  but  it  was  a  de- 
plorably unwise  one.  When  had  Colonel  Bellairs  ever 
indited  a  wise  one!  But  he  made  his  precarious  posi- 
tion even  less  tenable  by  ignoring  the  fact  that  Lord 
Lossiemouth's  fortunes  had  altered,  by  asserting  that 
he  had  had  it  in  his  mind  to  write  to  this  effect  the  pre- 
vious Christmas  but  had  not  had  time.  When  Colonel 
Bellairs  concocted  that  sentence  he  had  felt,  not  without 
pride,  that  it  covered  the  ground  of  his  fifteen  years' 
silence,  and  also  showed  that  Lord  Lossiemouth's  wealth 
had  nothing  to  do  with  his  recall.  For  the  letter  was 
a  recall. 

"  Blundering  old  idiot,"  said  Lord  Lossiemouth,  but 
he  had  become  very  red. 

All  kinds  of  memories  were  surging  up  in  him ;  Mag- 
dalen's crystal  love  for  him,  her  indefinable  charm, 
her  gaiety,  her  humility,  her  shyness,  her  exquisite 
beauty. 

Life  had  never  brought  him  anything  so  marvellous, 
so  enchanting,  as  that  first  draught  of  April  passion. 
And  he  had  quenched  his  thirst  at  many  other  cups  since 
then.  His  lips  had  been  blistered  and  stained  at  poi- 
soned brims.  Why  had  that  furious  old  turkey-cock 
parted  him  and  Magdalen!  His  heart  sank  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  remembrance  of  his  first  love. 

But  what  was  the  use !  The  Magdalen  he  had  loved 
had  ceased  to  exist.  The  wand-like  figure  with  its 


PRISONERS  245 

apple-blossom  face  faded,  faded,  and  in  its  place  rose 
up  the  image  of  the  thin,  distinguished-looking  grey- 
haired  woman  who  had  supplanted  that  marvel.  He 
had  met  Magdalen  accidentally  once  or  twice  in  Lon- 
don of  late  years,  and  had  felt  dismayed  anger  at  the 
change  in  her,  an  offended  anger  not  wholly  unlike  that 
with  which  he  surveyed  himself  at  his  tailors',  and  in- 
spected at  unbecoming  angles,  through  painfully  frank 
mirrors,  a  thick  back  and  a  stout  neck  and  jaw  which 
cruelly  misrepresented  his  fastidious  artistic  person- 
ality. 

He  returned  to  his  letters. 

Three  sheets  in  a  firm,  upright  hand. 

"  I  do  not  suppose  you  remember  me,"  it  began,  "  but 
I  intend  to  recall  myself  to  your  memory,  which  I  be- 
lieve to  be  none  of  the  best.  I  am  the  wife  of  Sir  John 
Blore,  and  aunt  to  Magdalen  Bellairs." 

He  flung  the  letter  down.  But  this  was  intolerable, 
a  persecution.  And  what  fools  they  were  all  to  write. 
Had  Magdalen  set  them  on? 

He  groaned  with  sudden  self -disgust.  What  unwor- 
thy thought  would  come  to  him  next?  Of  course  she 
knew  nothing  of  this. 

He  looked  at  the  date  of  each  letter  carefully.  Aunt 
Aggie's  according  to  her  wont  had  only  the  day  of  the 
week  on  it,  just  Tuesday,  or  it  might  be  Thursday — 
but  Colonel  Bellairs's  and  Lady  Blore's  were  fully  dated, 
and  about  a  fortnight  apart.  Colonel  Bellairs  had 
written  last. 

Lord  Lossiemouth  divined  that  each  of  the  three  be- 
lieved him  or  herself  to  be  the  only  one  to  tackle  the 
subject. 


246  PRISONERS 

How  ghastly !  What  a  cruelly  good  short  story  it 
would  make  for  a  magazine! 

Then  he  read  Lady  Blore's  letter.  Apparently  it 
was  not  pleasant  reading.  It  seemed  to  prick  some- 
what sharply.  He  winced  once  or  twice,  and  spoke 
angrily  to  it. 

"  My  good  woman,  as  if  I  did  not  know  that !  Men 
are  always  behaving  heartlessly  to  women  in  their  opin- 
ion. It  is  the  normal  male  state.  It  is  an  established 
fact  that  we  are  all  brutes.  Why  do  you  want  me  to 
marry  your  paragon  if  you  have  such  a  low  opinion 
of  me?" 

Still  he  could  not  put  the  letter  down. 

"  It  is  possible  though  improbable,"  wrote  that 
dauntless  woman,  "  that  your  vacillating  and  selfish 
character  may  have  improved  sufficiently  in  the  course 
of  years  for  you  to  have  become  aware  that  you  have 
behaved  disgracefully  to  a  woman,  who,  if  she  had  had 
any  sense,  ought  never  to  have  given  you  a  second 
thought,  who  was  and  still  is  deeply  attached  to  you; 
probably  the  only  person  on  this  earth  who  has  the 
misfortune  to  care  two  pins  about  you." 

Lord  Lossiemouth  tried  to  feel  sarcastic.  He  tried 
to  laugh.  But  it  was  no  use.  Lady  Blore's  arrow  had 
penetrated  a  joint  in  his  harness. 

After  all  he  need  take  no  notice  of  any  of  these  mon- 
strous effusions. 

He  was  disgusted  with  opening  letters.  Neverthe- 
less he  hurried  on.  Perhaps  he  should  find  others  less 
intolerable. 

A  somewhat  formal  letter  from  his  cousin  the  Bishop 
of  Lostford,  who  had  never  been  cordial  to  him  since  his 


PRISONERS  247 

engagement  to  Magdalen  had  been  broken  off.  The 
Bishop  pointed  out  certain  grave  abuses  connected  with 
house  property  at  Lostford,  at  which  the  late  Lord 
Lossiemouth  had  persistently  connived,  but  which  he 
hoped  his  successor  might  enquire  into  personally  and 
redress. 

Quantities  of  other  letters  were  torn  open  and  aimed 
in  balls  at  the  empty  grate.  But  at  last  he  came  to  a 
long  one  which  he  read  breathlessly. 

It  was  from  the  mother  of  the  girl  who  had  so  recently 
refused  him,  an  involved  tortuous  epistle,  which  implied 
that  the  daughter  was  seriously  attached  to  him,  and 
hinted  that  if  he  were  to  come  forward  again  he  would 
not  be  refused  a  second  time.  There  was  also  a  short, 
wavering,  nondescript  note  with  nothing  in  particular 
in  it  from  the  girl  herself.  The  mother  had  evidently 
made  her  write. 

A  very  venomous  expression  settled  on  Lord  Lossie- 
mouth's  heavy  face.  He  suddenly  took  up  a  Brad- 
shaw  and  looked  out  the  trains  for  Lostford. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

Tard  oublie  qui  bien  aime. 

ON  this  momentous  afternoon  Magdalen  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  morning-room  at  Priesthope  somewhat  op- 
pressed by  an  oncoming  cold.  It  had  not  yet  reached 
the  violent  and  weeping  stage.  That  was  for  to- 
morrow. She,  who  was  generally  sympathetically 
dressed,  was  reluctantly  enveloped  in  a  wiry  red  crochet- 
work  shawl  which  Bessie  had  made  for  her,  and  had  laid 
resolutely  upon  her  shoulders  before  she  went  out. 

She  tried  to  read,  but  her  eyes  ached,  and  after  a 
time  she  laid  down  her  book,  and  her  mind  went  back,  as 
it  had  a  way  of  doing — to  Fay. 

Fay  had  told  her  as  "  a  great  secret "  that  she  had 
accepted  Wentworth.  She  was  so  transfigured  by  hap- 
piness, so  radiant,  so  absolutely  unlike  her  former  list- 
less, colourless,  carping  self  that  Magdalen  could  only 
suppose  that  two  shocks  of  joy  had  come  simultane- 
ously, the  discovery  that  she  loved  her  prim  suitor,  and 
the  overwhelming  relief  to  her  tortured  conscience  of 
Michael's  release. 

Wentworth  and  Michael  were  still  at  Venice.  Michael, 
it  seemed,  had  been  prostrated  by  excitement,  and  had 
been  too  weak  to  travel  immediately.  But  they  would 
be  at  Barford  in  a  few  days'  time. 

When  Magdalen  saw  Fay  entirely  absorbed  in  trying 
on  a  succession  of  new  summer  hats,  sent  for  from 

248 


PRISONERS  249 

London  in  preparation  for  Wentworth's  return,  she 
asked  herself  for  the  twentieth  time  whether  Fay  had 
entirely  forgotten  her  previous  attraction  for  Michael, 
or  that  there  might  be  some  awkwardness  in  meeting  her 
faithful  lover  and  servant  again,  especially  as  the  future 
wife  of  his  brother. 

Two  years  had  certainly  elapsed  since  that  sudden 
flare-up  of  disastrous  passion,  and  in  two  years  much 
can  be  forgotten.  But  after  two  years  everything 
may  still  be  remembered,  as  Magdalen  knew  well. 
And  she  feared  that  Michael  was  among  those  who 
remember. 

Magdalen  had  that  day  told  Fay  of  her  father's  in- 
tention of  marrying  again,  but  she  took  almost  no 
notice  of  the  announcement.  To  use  one  of  Aunt  Ag- 
gie's metaphors,  the  news  "  seemed  to  slide  off  her  back 
like  a  duck." 

She  only  said,  "  Really !     How  silly  of  him !  " 

As  Magdalen  thought  of  Fay  the  door  opened  and 
Bessie,  who  was  supposed  to  have  gone  for  a  walk, 
came  in. 

She  had  a  spray  of  crab-apple  blossom  in  her  hand. 
She  held  it  towards  Magdalen  as  if  it  were  a  bill  de- 
manding instant  payment.  These  little  amenities  were 
a  new  departure  on  Bessie's  part. 

Magdalen's  pleasure  in  the  apple  blossom  seemed  to 
her  somewhat  exaggerated,  but  she  made  allowances 
for  her,  as  she  had  a  cold. 

"Are  you  going  out  again?"  asked  Magdalen. 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you. 
I  have  something  to  tell  you." 


250  PRISONERS 

Bessie  sat  down. 

"  I  am  prepared  for  the  announcement  you  have  to 
make.  I  have  seen  it  coming.  It  is  about  Fay." 

"  No,  it  is  about  Father.  He  has  asked  me  to  tell 
you  that  he  is  engaged  to  be  married." 

"  Father ! " 

"  Yes,  it  is  not  given  out  yet." 

"  Father !  " 

"  It  is  to  a  Miss  Barnett.  You  may  have  seen  her. 
The  doctor's  sister  at  Saundersfoot." 

"  I  know  her  by  sight,  a  tall,  showy-looking  woman 
of  nearly  forty,  with  amber  hair  and  a  powdered 
nose." 

"  Yes." 

"  Father  has  sunk  very  low,"  said  Bessie,  judicially. 
"  He  must  have  been  refused  by  a  lot  of  others,  younger 
and  better-looking,  and  ladies,  to  be  reduced  to  taking 
her.  And  fancy  anyone  in  their  senses  being  willing 
to  take  Father,  with  his  gout,  and  his  tendency  to  drink, 
and  his  total  disregard  of  hygiene.  Well,  she  looks  a 
vulgar  pushing  woman,  but  I  am  sorry  for  her.  And 
I  must  own  that  I  am  disappointed  that  if  there  was  to 
be  an  engagement  in  our  family  it  should  be  Father. 
There  is  not  likely  to  be  more  than  one  going  for  a 
home  like  ours.  It  is  just  like  him  to  grab  it." 

Magdalen  tried  not  to  laugh. 

"  I've  looked  round,"  continued  Bessie.  "  I  don't 
say  that  at  present  I  could  entertain  the  thought  of 
marriage  myself.  I  can't  just  yet,  but  I  mean  to  in 
the  future.  It's  merely  a  question  of  time0  Marriage 
is  the  higher  life.  Besides,  if  one  remains  unmarried 
people  are  apt  to  think  it  is  because  one  can't  help 


PRISONERS  251 

it.  It  would  certainly  be  so  in  my  case.  And  I 
have  looked  round.  There  is  not  a  soul  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood for  any  of  us  to  marry  that  I  can  see  ex- 
cept Wentworth,  who  is  of  course  extremely  elderly. 
Hampshire  seems  absolutely  bare  of  young  men.  And 
if  there  are  a  few  sons  in  some  of  the  houses,  they  are 
never  accessible.  And  the  really  superior  ones  like  Lord 
Alresford's  only  son  would  never  look  at  me.  It  would 
be  waste  of  time  to  try.  There  is  positively  no  opening 
in  Hampshire  unless  I  marry  the  curate." 

"  That  reminds  me  that  he  is  to  call  this  afternoon 
about  the  boot-and-shoe  club.  I  wish,  my  dear,  in  the 
intervals  between  your  aspirations  towards  the  higher 
life,  you  would  go  through  the  accounts  with  him.  My 
head  is  so  confused  with  this  cold." 

"  I  will.  And  where  on  earth  are  you  going  to  live 
when  Father  marries  again?  Of  course,  I  shall  gradu- 
ate at  Cambridge.  He  won't  oppose  that  now.  Mag- 
dalen, why  don't  you  marry,  too?  " 

"  I  can't,  dear  Bessie.     No  one  wants  me." 

"May  I  go  on?" 

"  No.     Please  don't." 

"  I  think  I  will  all  the  same.  Why  not  marry 
Lord  Lossiemouth  after  all?  Don't  speak.  I  want  to 
place  the  situation  dispassionately  before  you.  I  have 
thought  it  carefully  over.  You  are  an  extremely  at- 
tractive woman,  Magdalen.  I  don't  know  what  it  is 
about  you,  I  fail  to  analyse  it,  but  one  becomes  attached 
to  you.  You  can  make  even  a  home  pleasant.  And 
if  a  man  once  cared  for  you  it  is  improbable  that  he 
would  cease  to  care  just  because  you  are  no  longer 
young.  I  take  my  stand  on  the  basic  fact  that  there 


252  PRISONERS 

certainly  has  been  a  mutual  attachment.  I  then  ask 
myself 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  the  footman 
announced  "  Lord  Lossiemouth." 

The  shock  to  both  women  was  for  the  moment  over- 
whelming. 

Magdalen  recovered  herself  almost  instantaneously 
and  welcomed  him  with  grave  courtesy,  but  she  was 
unable  to  articulate. 

He  had  seen  the  amazement  in  the  four  eyes  turned 
on  him  as  he  came  in,  and  cursed  Colonel  Bellairs  in 
his  heart.  Why  had  not  the  old  idiot  warned  Mag- 
dalen of  his  coming? 

He  had  felt  doubtful  of  his  reception.  A  simulated 
coldness  on  Magdalen's  part  was,  perhaps,  to  be  ex- 
pected. But  for  her  blank  astonishment  he  was  not 
prepared. 

"  This  is  Bessie,"  she  said  in  a  shaking  voice. 

Bessie!  This  tall,  splendid  young  woman.  Could 
this  be  the  tiny  child  of  three  who  used  to  sit  on  his 
knee,  and  blow  his  watch  open. 

"  I  cannot  be  expected  to  remember  you,"  said  Bessie, 
advancing  a  limp  hand.  She  fixed  a  round  dispassion- 
ate eye  on  his  heavy,  irritable  face,  and  found  him 
unpleasant  looking. 

He  instantly  thought  her  odious. 

And  they  all  three  sat  down  simultaneously  as  if  by 
a  preconcerted  signal. 

"Are  you  staying  in  the  neighbourhood?"  asked 
Magdalen,  as  a  paralysed  silence  became  imminent.  A 
faint  hectic  colour  burnt  in  her  cheeks. 

Lord  Lossiemouth  pulled  himself  together,  and  came 


PRISONERS  253 

to  her  assistance.  Together  they  held  back  the  silence 
at  arm's  length. 

Yes,  he  was  staying  in  the  neighbourhood — at  Lost- 
ford  in  fact.  House  property  near  the  river.  Liable 
to  floods. 

Did  he  mention  the  word  floods  ? 

Yes.  Floods  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year.  Time 
to  take  measures  now  before  the  autumn,  etc. 

Magdalen  was  glad  to  hear  of  some  measures  being 
taken.  Long  needed. 

Yes,  culpable  neglect. 

A  wall? 

Yes,  a  wall.     Certainly  a  wall. 

Bessie  rose,  marched  to  the  door,  opened  it,  hit  her 
body  against  it,  and  went  out. 

A  certain  degree  of  constraint  went  with  her. 

"  I  had  your  Father's  leave  to  come,"  he  said  after 
a  moment.  "  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  do  so 
otherwise." 

"  I  wish  Father  had  warned  me,"  she  said. 

They  looked  away  from  each  other.  Here  in  this 
room  fifteen  years  ago  they  had  parted.  Both  shivered 
at  the  remembrance. 

Then  they  looked  long  at  each  other. 

Magdalen  became  very  pale.  She  saw  as  in  a  glass 
what  was  passing  through  his  mind ;  and  for  a  moment 
her  heart  cried  out  against  those  treacherous  deserters, 
her  beauty  and  her  youth,  that  they  should  have  fled 
and  left  her  thus,  defenceless  and  unarmed  to  endure 
his  cruel  eyes.  But  she  remembered  that  he  had  left 
her  before  they  did.  They  had  not  availed  to  stay 
him.  They  had  only  slipped  away  from  her  in  his 


254  PRISONERS 

wake.  And  at  the  time  she  had  hardly  noticed  their 
departure,  as  he  was  no  longer  there  to  miss  them. 

Lord  Lossiemouth  had  come  determined  to  propose 
to  Magdalen,  his  determination  screwed  "  to  the  stick- 
ing point  "  by  a  deliberately  recalled  remembrance  of 
the  change  the  years  had  wrought  in  her.  He  had  told 
himself  he  was  prepared  for  that.  Nevertheless,  now 
that  he  was  actually  face  to  face  with  her,  in  spite  of 
his  regard  and  respect  for  her,  a  horrid  chasm  seemed 
to  yawn  between  them,  which  only  one  primitive  emo- 
tion can  span,  an  emotion  which,  like  a  disused  bridge, 
had  fallen  into  the  gulf  years  ago. 

And  yet  how  marvellously  strong,  how  immortal  it 
had  seemed  once — in  this  same  room  with  this  same 
woman.  It  had  seemed  then  as  if  it  could  not  break, 
or  fall,  or  fade. 

It  had  broken,  it  had  fallen,  it  had  faded. 

As  he  looked  earnestly  at  her  he  became  aware  that 
though  she  had  been  momentarily  distressed  a  great 
serenity  was  habitual  to  her.  The  eyes  which  now  met 
his  had  regained  their  calm.  It  seemed  as  if  her  life 
had  been  steeped  in  tranquil  sunshine,  as  if  the  free 
air  of  heaven  had  penetrated  her  whole  delicate  being, 
and  had  left  its  clear  fragrance  with  her. 

Oh !  if  only  they  had  been  married  fifteen  years  ago ! 
What  happiness  they  might  have  given  each  other. 
How  perfect  to  have  owed  it  all  to  each  other.  How 
fond  he  would  still  be  of  her.  How  tender  their  mutual 
regard  would  still  be.  Then  his  present  feeling  for  her 
would  not  be  amiss.  They  ought  to  be  sitting  peace- 
fully together  at  this  moment,  not  in  this  intolerably 
embarrassing  personal  relation  towards  each  other, 


PRISONERS  255 

but  at  ease  with  each  other,  talking  over  their  boy  at 
Eton,  and  the  new  pony  for  their  little  daughters.  He 
did  not  want  to  begin  being  married  to  her  now. 

She  knew  what  he  felt. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  said,  "  I  am  distressed  that  I  have 
taken  you  by  surprise.  I  had  hoped  that  you  were 
prepared  to  see  me.  But  my  coming  is  not,  I  trust, 
painful  to  you." 

A  pulse  fluttered  in  her  cheek. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "  If  I  did  not 
seem  so  the  first  moment  it  was  only  because  I  was  taken 
aback." 

"  A  great  change  has  come  over  my  fortunes,"  he 
continued,  anxious  to  give  her  time,  and  yet  aware  that 
no  conversation  except  on  the  object  of  his  visit 
was  really  possible.  "  I  am  at  last  in  a  position  to 
marry." 

"  When  I  heard  the  news  I  thought  that  you  would 
probably  marry  soon." 

"  Our  engagement  was  broken  off  solely  for  lack  of 
means,"  he  continued.  Her  eyes  dropped.  "  Now  that 
that  obstacle  is  removed  I  have  come  to  ask  you,  to  beg 
you  most  earnestly  to  renew  it." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,"  she  said  almost  inaudibly. 
"  I  appreciate  your — kindness." 

He  saw  that  she  was  going  to  refuse  him.  But  he 
was  prepared  for  that  contingency.  It  was  a  natural 
feminine  method  of  readjusting  the  balance  between 
them.  He  would  certainly  give  her  the  opportunity. 
He  owed  it  to  her.  Besides,  the  refusal  would  not  be 
final.  He  knew  from  her  relations  that  she  still  loved 
him. 


256  PRISONERS 

"  If  your  feeling  towards  me  is  unchanged  will  you 
marry  me?  " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  footman  announced  "  Mr. 
Thomson." 

The  new  curate  came  slowly  into  the  room,  his  short- 
sighted eyes  peering  about  him,  a  little  faggot  of 
papers  girdled  by  an  elastic  band,  clasped  in  his  care- 
ful hand  against  his  breast. 

Magdalen  started  violently,  and  Lord  Lossiemouth 
experienced  a  furious  exasperation. 

Magdalen  mechanically  introduced  the  two  men  to 
each  other,  and  they  all  three  sat  down,  with  the  same 
sudden  automatic  precision  as  when  Bessie  had  been 
present. 

"  The  days  are  beginning  to  lengthen  already," 
said  Mr.  Thomson.  "  I  have  noticed  it,  especially 
the  last  few  days,  and  the  rooks  are  clamourous — very 
clamourous." 

"  It  was  to  be  expected,"  faltered  Magdalen. 

"  The  accounts  are,  I  am  glad  to  say,  in  perfect 
order.  I  am  proud  to  add,  though  I  fear  a  statement 
so  unusual  may  lay  me  open  to  a  charge  of  romancing, 
that  we  have  a  small  balance  in  hand." 

How  he  had  looked  forward  to  saying  these  words. 
With  what  a  flash  of  surprised  delight  he  had  expected 
this  astounding,  this  gratifying  announcement  would 
be  received. 

He  paused  a  moment  to  let  his  words  sink  in — evi- 
dently Miss  Bellairs  had  not  heard. 

"  Three  pounds  five  and  nine,"  he  said. 

"  It    is    wonderful,"    said    Magdalen    emphatically. 
"  Quite  wonderful.     I  never  heard  of  a  boot-and-shoe 


PRISONERS  257 

club  which  was  not  in  debt.  Have  you  ?  "  And  she 
turned  to  Lord  Lossiemouth. 

But  Lord  Lossiemouth's  temper  was  absent.  He 
found  the  situation  intolerable.  He  only  answered, 
"  Never." 

"  Bessie  is  waiting  to  hear  all  about  it  in  the  school- 
room," continued  Magdalen.  "  I  have  asked  her  to  go 
over  the  papers  with  you.  She  will  be  as  surprised 
and  delighted  as  I  am.  Shall  we  go  and  tell  her?  " 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  rose  and  led 
the  way  to  the  schoolroom,  followed  by  Mr.  Thomson. 
Bessie  was  sitting  alone  there,  staring  in  front  of  her, 
paralysed  by  Lord  Lossiemouth's  arrival,  and  indig- 
nant at  the  possibility  that  Magdalen  might  marry 
that  "  horrid  old  thing,"  who  was  not  the  least  like 
the  charming  photograph  of  him  in  her  sister's  album. 
However,  she  grasped  the  situation,  and  after  an  im- 
ploring glance  from  Magdalen,  grappled  with  all  her 
might  with  the  boot-and-shoe  club. 

Magdalen  hurriedly  tore  off  the  little  red  shawl  and 
returned  to  the  morning-room,  and  closed  the  door.  It 
was  a  considerable  effort  to  her  to  close  it,  and  by 
doing  so  to  invite  a  renewal  of  Lord  Lossiemouth's  offer. 
But  it  could  not  be  left  open. 

"  It  was  not  poor  Mr.  Thomson's  fault,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  wish  I  could  have  saved  you  this  annoyance." 

He  struggled  to  recover  his  temper.  Her  quivering 
face  shewed  him  that  she  was  suffering  from  the  miser- 
able accident  of  the  interruption  even  more  than  he  was. 

"  I  was  asking  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said  with  cour- 
age, but  with  visible  irritation.  "  Will  you?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot." 


258  PRISONERS 

"  I  knew  you  would  say  that.  I  expected  it.  But 
I  beg  you  to  reconsider  it,  that  is  if — if  your  feeling 
for  me  is  still  unchanged." 

"  It  is  unchanged." 

"  Then  why  not  marry  me?  " 

"  Because  you  do  not  care  for  me." 

"  I  felt  certain  you  would  say  that.  But  I  do  care 
for  you.  Should  I  be  here  if  I  did  not?  We  are  two 
middle-aged  people,  Magdalen.  The  old  raptures  and 
roses  would  be  out  of  place,  but  I  have  always  cared 
for  you.  Surely  you  know  that.  Have  you  forgotten 
the  old  days  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Neither  have  I.  All  we  have  to  do  is  to  forget  the 
years  between."  As  he  spoke  he  felt  that  the  thing 
could  hardly  have  been  better  put. 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  forget  them." 

He  had  made  a  great  effort  to  control  his  temper9 
but  he  found  her  unreasonable.  His  anger  got  the 
upper  hand. 

"  It  is  one  of  two  things  that  makes  you  refuse  me. 
Either  you  can't  forgive  me,  and  I  daresay  I  don't 
deserve  that  you  should,  I  am  not  posing  as  a  faultless 
character — or  you  have  ceased  to  love  me.  Which 
is  it?" 

"  I  have  not  ceased  to  love  you,"  she  replied.  "  Have 
I  not  just  told  you  so?  But  you  would  find  yourself 
miserable  in  the — lop-sided  kind  of  marriage  which  you 
are  contemplating.  It  is  unwise  to  try  to  make  bricks 
without  straw." 

"  Then  if  your  mind  was  so  absolutely  made  up  be- 
forehand to  refuse  me,  why  was  I  sent  for?  "  he  stain- 


PRISONERS  259 

mered,  white  with  anger.  He  struck  the  table  with  his 
hand.  "  What  was  the  use  of  urging  me  to  come  back, 
if  I  was  to  meet  with  a  frigid,  elegantly  expressed, 
deliberately  planned  rebuff  directly  I  set  foot  in  the 
house !  " 

"  Why  were  you  sent  for?  "  she  said  aghast.  "  Surely 
you  came  of  your  own  accord.  Sent  for!  Who  sent 
for  you?  " 

She  sat  down  feebly.  A  horrible  suspicion  turned 
her  faint. 

"  Who  sent  for  me?"  he  said  venomously.  "Why 
am  I  here?  " 

He  tore  some  letters  out  of  his  pocket,  and  thrust 
them  into  her  hands.  Always  sensitive  to  a  slight,  he 
was  infuriated  by  the  low  cunning,  the  desire  to  hu- 
miliate him,  with  which  he  imagined  he  had  been  treated. 
Others  could  be  humiliated  as  well  as  himself. 

"  Read  them,"  he  said  savagely,  and  he  walked  away 
from  her,  and  stood  by  the  window  with  his  back  to 
her. 

Magdalen  read  them  slowly,  the  three  letters,  her 
father's,  Aunt  Mary's,  Aunt  Aggie's.  Then  she  put 
them  back  into  their  envelopes  and  wiped  the  sweat 
from  her  forehead. 

Humiliation,  shame,  despair,  the  anguish  of  wounded 
love,  she  saw  them  creep  towards  her.  She  saw  them 
crouch  like  wild  beasts  ready  to  spring,  their  cruel 
eyes  upon  her.  She  had  known  their  fangs  once. 
Were  they  to  rend  her  again? 

She  sat  motionless  and  saw  them  pass,  as  behind  bars, 
pass  quite  away.  They  could  not  reach  her.  They 
could  not  touch  her. 


260  PRISONERS 

She  looked  at  the  lover  of  her  youth,  standing  as 
she  had  so  often  seen  him  stand  at  that  window  in 
years  gone  by,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  looking 
out  to  the  sea. 

She  went  softly  to  him,  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  I  am  more  grieved  that  I  can  say  about  these," 
she  said,  touching  the  letters.  "  I  did  not  know  the 
poor  dears  had  written.  It  was  good  of  you  to  come 
back  at  the  call  of  these  unhappy  letters.  Will  you 
not  burn  them,  Everard,  and  forget  them?  There  is 
a  fire  waiting  for  them." 

She  put  them  into  his  hand.  She  had  not  spoken  to 
him  by  his  Christian  name  before.  His  anger  sank 
suddenly.  He  took  them  in  a  shamed  silence,  and 
dropped  them  into  the  fire.  Magdalen  sat  down  by  the 
hearth,  and  he  sat  down  near  her.  Together  they 
watched  them  burn. 

"  I  ought  to  have  burnt  them  yesterday,"  he  said 
remorsefully. 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not.  I  am  so  thankful  to  see 
you  again,  and  that  these  foolish  letters  brought  you. 
I  have  often  longed  to  have  a  talk  with  you. 

"  It  seems  unreasonable,"  continued  Magdalen,  her 
clear  eyes  meeting  his,  "  but  the  fact  of  your  asking 
me  to  marry  you  makes  it  possible  for  me  to  tell  you 
what  I  have  long  wished  to  tell  you.  I  have  often 
thought  of  writing  it.  I  did  write  it  once,  but  I  tore 
it  up.  It  seems  as  if  a  woman  can't  say  certain  things 
to  a  man  till  he  has  said,  '  Will  you  marry  me  ?  '  Then 
it  is  easy,  because  then  nothing  she  may  say  can  rouse 
a  suspicion  in  his  mind  that  she  wants  to  make  him 
say  it." 


PRISONERS  261 

"  I  have  proposed  to  you  twice,  Magdalen.  Is  not 
that  enough  ?  "  His  voice  was  very  bitter.  "  I  ven- 
ture to  prophesy  that  you  will  be  safe  from  my  pester- 
ing you  with  a  third  offer." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  never  dreamed  that  you  would 
ask  me  this  second  time.  I  never  thought  we  should 
meet  again  except  by  chance,  as  we  did  a  year  ago. 
But  I  have  had  you  in  my  mind,  and  I  have  often  feared 
— often — that  I  was  a  painful  remembrance  to  you; 
that  when  you  thought  of  me  it  was  with  regret  that 
you  had  perhaps — it  is  not  so  easy  to  say  after  all — 
that  you  had  spoilt  my  life." 

"  I  did  reproach  myself  bitterly  with  having  made 
love  to  you  when  you  were  so  very  young  and  inex- 
perienced, and  when  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that 
I  was  not  in  a  position  to  marry.  Your  father  did  rub 
that  in.  As  if  I  could  help  my  poverty." 

"  Father  is  not  a  reasonable  person.  You  were 
nearly  as  young  as  I  was.  Looking  back  now  it  seems 
as  if  we  had  both  been  almost  children." 

"  It  was  a  great  misfortune  for  both  of  us,"  he 
said,  colouring.  He  had  not  felt  it  great  after  the 
first. 

"  Not  for  me,"  she  said.  "  That  is  what  I  have  long 
wished  to  tell  you.  It  has  been  my  great  good  fortune. 
Not  at  first — but  after  a  time.  I  should  never  have 
known  love — of  that  I  am  sure — unless  it  had  been  for 
you.  You  were  the  only  person  who  could  waken  it 
in  me.  The  power  to  love  is  the  great  gift;  to  be 
permitted  to  know  that  marvel,  to  be  allowed  once 
in  one's  life  to  touch  the  infinite.  Love  opens  all 
the  doors.  Some  opened  in  pain,  but  they  did  open. 


262  PRISONERS 

I  never  knew,  I  never  guessed  until  long  after  you  had 
come  into  my  life,  and  gone  away  again,  how  much  I 
owed  to  you.  Then  I  began  to  see,  first  in  gleams,  and 
then  plainly.  Your  momentary  attraction  towards 
me  was  a  tiny  spark  of  the  Divine  love,  a  sort  of  little 
lantern  leading  me  home  through  the  dark." 

He  stared  at  her  amazed.  Her  transparency  trans- 
fixed him.  What  is  superficial  is  also  often  deep  in 
clear  natures  such  as  Magdalen's,  like  a  water  lily 
whose  stem  goes  down  a  long  way. 

"  Love  releases  us  from  ourselves,  our  hard  proud 
selves,  and  makes  everything  possible  to  flow  in  to  us, 
happiness,  peace,  joy,  gratitude.  I  thank  God  for 
having  let  me  know  you,  for  having  made  me  love  you. 
I  might  have  missed  it.  I  see  others  miss  it.  I  might 
have  gone  through  life  not  knowing.  I  might  have  had 
to  bear  the  burden  of  life,  without  the  one  thing  that 
makes  it  easy.  I  see  other  people  toiling  and  moiling, 
and  getting  hopeless  and  miserable  and  exhausted  till 
my  heart  aches  for  them.  After  the  first  I  have  never 
toiled,  never  grieved,  never  despaired.  I  have  been  sus- 
tained always.  For  there  are  not  two  kinds  of  love, 
Everard,  but  only  one.  The  love  of  you  is  the  cup  of 
water,  and  the  love  of  God  is  the  well  it  is  taken 
from.  .  .  .  You  had  better  go  now  before  anyone  else 
comes  in,  but  I  want  you  to  remember  when  you  think 
of  me  that  I  bless  and  thank  you,  and  am  grateful  to 
you.  I  have  been  grateful  for  years." 

She  took  his  leaden  hand  in  both  of  hers,  and  held 
it  for  a  moment  to  her  lips. 

Lord  Lossiemouth's  face  was  pinched  and  aged.  His 
hand  fell  out  of  hers. 


PRISONERS  263 

Then  his  face  became  suddenly  convulsed,  frightful 
to  behold,  like  that  of  a  man  being  squeezed  to  death. 

"  I  never  loved  you,"  he  said  in  a  fierce,  suffocated 
voice.  "  I  was  a  little  in  love  with  you,  that  was  all, 
and  that  was  not  much.  I  soon  got  over  it." 

"  I  know,"  she  said. 

"  I  felt  pain  for  a  time.  You  were  very  beautiful, 
and  you  were  the  first.  I  was  the  same  as  you  then. 
But  I  found  other  beautiful  women.  I  took  what  I 
could  get  out  of  life,  and  out  of  women.  I  rubbed  out 
my  pain  that  way.  It  was  not  your  father  who  parted 
us,  it  was  myself.  I  would  not  own  it,  I  was  always  bit- 
ter against  him,  but  it  was  my  fault.  I  did  not  mean  to 
work,  and  tie  myself  to  an  office  stool :  I  had  the  chance, 
but  I  wanted  to  travel  and  see  the  world.  It  was  not 
lack  of  means  that  parted  us.  I  said  a  few  minutes 
ago  that  it  had  been  the  only  obstacle  to  our  marriage, 
and  your  eyes  dropped.  You  have  known  better  all 
the  time,  but  you  wouldn't  say.  All  these  years  I 
have  put  it  down  to  that.  But  it  was  not.  We  were 
parted  by  lack  of  love." 

"  I  know,"  she  said  again. 

"  On  my  side." 

"  It  was  not  your  fault.  We  can't  love  to  order, 
or  by  our  own  will.  It  is  a  gift." 

"  Some  of  us  can't  love  at  all,"  he  said  fiercely. 
"  That  is  about  it.  We  have  not  got  any  room  for  it 
if — if  it  is  given  us.  It  could  not  get  a  foothold.  It  was 
crowded  out.  I  was  often  glad  afterwards  that  I  did 
not  tie  myself  to  you.  Glad!  Do  you  hear,  Mag- 
dalen? It  left  me  free  to — it  did  give  me  pain  when  I 
thought  of  you.  I  knew  what  I  had  done  to  you.  I 


264  PRISONERS 

used  to  tell  myself  that  you  gave  me  up  very  easily, 
that  you  did  not  really  want  me.  But  I  knew  in  my 
heart  that  you  did.  But  it  only  made  me  bitter,  and 
I  put  the  thought  away.  That  time,  it  is  ten  years 
ago ;  good  God !  it  is  all  so  long  ago,  when  you  nearly 
died  of  scarlet  fever  in  London,  I  heard  of  it  by  chance 
when  you  were  at  your  worst,  I  was  shocked,  but  I 
did  not  really  care,  for  I  had  long  ceased  to  want  you. 
I  used  to  visit  a  certain  woman  every  day  in  that 
street,  and  I  once  asked  her  who  the  straw  was  down 
for,  and  she  said  it  was  for  a  '  Miss  Magdalen  Bel- 
lairs.'  I  was  in  love  with  her  at  the  moment,  if  you 
can  call  it  love.  I  have  dragged  myself  through  all 
kinds  of  sordid  passions  since — we  parted." 

Tears  of  rage  stood  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  at  her 
through  them.  It  seemed  as  if  no  wounding  word 
under  heaven  would  be  left  to  say  by  the  time  he  had 
finished. 

"  And  I  did  not  come  back  in  order  to  make  amends," 
he  went  on.  "  You  know  me  very  little  if  you  think 
that.  I  came  back  solely  out  of  pique.  It  was  not 
those  absurd  letters  which  brought  me,  or  held  me 
back.  It  was  another  woman.  I  wanted  to  pay  her 
out." 

"  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  something  like  that,"  said 
Magdalen. 

"  It  was  a  virtuous  attachment  this  time.  I  am 
nearly  forty.  I  am  getting  grey  and  stout.  Young 
women  have  a  difficulty  in  perceiving  my  existence.  It 
was  high  time  to  settle,  and  to  live  on  some  attractive 
woman's  money.  There  are  thousands  of  women  who 
must  marry  someone.  So  why  not  me?  I  found  the 


PRISONERS  265 

attractive  woman.  I  walked  into  love  with  her,"  he 
stammered  with  anger.  "  I  regarded  it  as  a  consti- 
tutional. But  the  attractive  woman,  though  she  liked 
me  a  little,  weighed  the  pros  and  cons  exactly  as  I 
had  done,  and  decided  not  to  take  her  constitutional  in 
my  impecunious  company.  She  refused  me  when  I 
was  poor,  and  now — now  that  I  am  rich — she  is 
willing." 

The  harsh  voice  ceased  suddenly.  Magdalen  looked 
for  a  moment  at  the  savage,  self -tortured  face,  and  her 
heart  bled. 

"  That  is  how  I  have  treated  you,"  he  said,  choking 
with  passion.  "  Now  you  know  the  truth  of  me — for 
the  first  time.  That  is  the  kind  of  man  I  am,  hard  and 
vindictive  and  selfish  to  the  core:  the  man  whom  you 
have  idealised,  whom  you  have  put  on  a  pedestal  all 
these  years." 

"  I  have  known  always  the  kind  of  man  you  were," 
she  said  steadily.  "  I  never  idealised  you,  as  you  call 
it.  I  loved  you  knowing  the  worst  of  you.  Otherwise 
my  love  could  not  have  endured  through.  A  foolish 
idealism  would  have  perished  long  ago." 

"  And  then  I  come  down  here,  on  a  sudden  despicable 
impulse,  intending  to  use  you  as  a  weapon  to  strike 
her  with,  not  that  she  is  worth  striking,  poor  feeble 
pretty  toy.  And  I  encouraged  myself  in  a  thin  streak 
of  patronising  sentiment  for  you.  I  wrote  a  little 
cursed  sonnet  in  the  train  how  old  affection  outlasts 
youthful  passion,  like  violets  blooming  in  autumn.  How 
loathsome!  How  incredibly  base!  And  then,  when 
my  temper  is  aroused  by  your  opposition,  I  am  das- 
tardly enough,  heartless  enough  to  try  to  humiliate  you 


266  PRISONERS 

by  shewing  you  those  letters,  to  try  to  revenge  myself 
on  you.  On  you,  Magdalen !  On  "you !  On  you !  " 

She  did  not  speak  nor  move.  Her  face  was  awed,  as 
the  face  of  one  who  watches  beside  the  pangs  of  death 
or — birth. 

Outside  in  the  amber  sunset  a  thrush  piped. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  said  almost  inarticulately,  "  you 
have  never  repulsed  me.  Don't  repulse  me  now,  for  I 
am  very  miserable.  Don't  pour  your  love  into  the  sand 
any  more.  Give  it  me  instead.  I  am  dying  of  thirst. 
Give  me  to  drink.  You  can  live  without  me,  but  I  can't 
live  without  you.  I  have  tried — I  have  tried  every- 
thing. I  am  not  thinking  of  you,  only  of  myself.  I 
am  only  asking  for  myself,  only  impelled  towards  you 
by  my  own  needs.  Does  not  that  prove  to  you  that 
I  am  at  last  speaking  the  truth?  Does  not  that  force 
you  to  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  want  you  more 
than  anything  in  the  world.  I  have  wanted  you  all 
my  life  without  knowing  it.  I  don't  want  to  make 
amends  to  you  for  the  past.  I  want  you  yourself,  for 
myself,  as  my  wife.  I  swear  to  God  if  you  won't  marry 
me  I  will  marry  no  one.  You  are  the  only  woman  I 
can  speak  to,  the  only  one  who  does  not  fail,  who  holds 
on  through  thick  and  thin,  the  only  one  who  has  ever 
really  wanted  me.  I  daresay  I  shan't  make  you  happy. 
I  daresay  I  shall  break  your  heart.  God  help  me,  I 
daresay  I  shall  put  my  convenience  before  your  happi- 
ness, my  selfish  whims  before  your  health.  I  have  always 
put  myself  first.  But  risk  it.  Risk  it,  Magdalen. 
Take  me  back.  Love  me.  For  God's  sake  marry  me." 

Each  looked  into  the  other's  bared  soul. 

Something  in  his  desperate  face  which  she  had  always 


PRISONERS  267 

sought  for,  which  had  always  been  missing  from  it — 
she  found. 

"  I  will,"  she  said. 

They  made  no  movement  towards  each  other.  They 
had  reached  a  spiritual  nearness,  a  passion  of  surrender 
each  to  each,  which  touch  of  hand  or  lip  could  only  at 
that  moment  have  served  to  lessen. 

"  You  are  not  taking  me  out  of  pity  ?  You  are  sure 
you  can  still  love  me  a  little  ?  " 

"  More  than  in  the  early  days,"  she  said.  "  For 
you  have  not  only  come  to  me,  Everard.  You  have 
come  to  yourself." 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

Me,  too,  with  mastering  charm 

From  husks  of  dead  days  freeing, 
The  sun  draws  up  to  be  warm 

And  to  bloom  in  this   sweet  hour. 
The  stem  of  all  my  being 
Waited  to  bear  this  flower. 

— LAURENCE  BINYON. 

IT  would  be  hardly  possible  to  describe  the  unholy,  the 
unmeasured  rejoicing  to  which  Magdalen's  engagement 
gave  rise  in  her  family.  It  is,  perhaps,  enough  to  say 
that  the  twenty  years  of  her  cheerful,  selfless  devotion 
to  the  domestic  hearth  had  never  won  from  her  father 
and  her  two  aunts  anything  like  the  admiring  approval 
which  her  engagement  at  once  elicited.  The  neigh- 
bourhood was  interested.  Lord  Lossiemouth  was  a 
brilliant  match  for  anyone  (if  you  left  out  the  man 
himself).  The  announcement  read  impressively  in  the 
Morning  Post.  The  neighbours  remembered  that  there 
had  been  a  youthful  attachment,  an  early  engagement 
broken  off  owing  to  lack  of  means.  And  now  it  seemed 
the  moment  he  was  rich  he  had  come  flying  back  to 
cast  his  faithful  heart  once  more  at  her  feet.  It  was 
a  real  romance.  Magdalen  was  considered  an  extra- 
ordinarily fortunate  woman  by  the  whole  countryside, 
but  Lord  Lossiemouth  was  placed  on  a  pedestal.  What 
touching  constancy.  What  beautiful  fidelity.  What 
a  contrast  to  "  most  men."  "  Not  one  man  in  a  hun- 

263 


PRISONERS  269 

dred  would  have  acted  in  that  chivalrous  manner,"  was 
the  feminine  verdict  of  Hampshire. 

A  wave  of  cheap  sentiment  overflowed  the  Bellairs 
family,  in  which  Colonel  Bellairs  floated  complacently 
like  a  piece  of  loose  seaweed,  and  in  which  even  Aunt 
Mary  underwent  a  dignified  undulation. 

Bessie  alone  was  unmoved. 

"  You  said,  '  Yes '  too  soon,"  she  remarked  to  Mag- 
dalen in  private.  "  I  should  never  have  thought  you 
would  be  so  lacking  in  true  dignity.  He  goes  away 
for  fifteen  years  and  I  should  not  wonder  a  bit  if  he 
had  thought  of  someone  else  in  the  interim  for  all  you 
know  to  the  contrary — men  are  like  that — and  then 
he  just  lounges  in  and  says  *  Marry  me,'  and  you  agree 
in  a  second.  You  might  at  any  rate  have  made  him  wait 
for  his  answer  till  after  tea.  In  my  opinion  you  have 
made  yourself  cheap  by  such  precipitate  action.  He 
thinks  he  has  only  got  to  ask,  and  he  can  have." 

Magdalen  did  not  answer. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  continued  the  pained 
monitor.  "  I  have  always  had  a  certain  respect  for 
you,  Magdalen,  and  when  he  came  back  I  supposed  you 
would  give  in  to  him  in  time  if  he  pressed  you  without 
intermission,  and  was  constant  for  a  considerable  period 
— say  a  couple  of  years ;  but  I  never  thought  it  possible 
you  would  collapse  like  this.  I  fear  you  have  not  taken 
his  character  sufficiently  into  consideration.  If  I  were 
in  your  place  I  should  be  afraid  that  Everard  would 
not  allow  my  nature  free  scope,  or  take  an  interest  in 
my  mental  development,  and  that  the  sacrifices  which 
make  domestic  life  tolerable  might  have  to  be  all  on 
my  side.  He  is  absolutely  unworthy  of  you,  and  his 


270  PRISONERS 

nose  is  quite  thick.  I  daresay  you  have  not  remarked 
it,  but  I  did  at  once.  And  in  my  opinion  he  ought  for 
his  own  good  to  have  been  made  to  realise  it.  Even 
Aunt  Mary,  though  she  says  she  entirely  approves 
of  the  marriage,  admits  that  you  have  shown  too  much 
eagerness." 

Fortunately  for  Magdalen  the  interest  of  the  neigh- 
bours, and  even  of  her  own  family,  was  speedily  di- 
verted to  another  channel  by  the  return  of  Wentworth 
and  Michael  to  Barford.  The  enthusiastic  welcome 
which  Michael  received  from  all  classes,  and  from  dis- 
tant families  who  had  never  evinced  much  cordiality 
to  his  elder  brother,  astonished  Wentworth,  touched 
him  to  the  quick. 

"  I  had  no  idea  we  had  so  many  friends,"  he  said 
repeatedly. 

Michael  smiled  vaguely  and  took  everything  for 
granted.  Wentworth  was  so  anxious  to  shield  him 
from  fatigue  and  excitement  that  at  first  he  was  only 
too  thankful  that  Michael  took  everything  so  quietly. 
But  after  a  few  days  he  became  uneasy  at  his  brother's 
inertness  of  mind  and  body.  A  great  doctor,  however, 
explained  Michael's  state  very  much  as  the  Italian  doc- 
tor had  done.  He  was  in  an  exhausted  condition.  What 
was  essential  to  him  was  rest.  He  must  not  be  made 
to  see  anyone  or  do  anything  he  did  not  like. 

"  Your  brother  will  regain  his  health  entirely," 
the  great  man  had  said,  "  if  he  is  left  in  peace,  and 
nothing  happens  to  overexcite  him.  He  is  worn  to  a 
shadow  by  that  accursed  prison.  Many  men  in  his 
condition  can't  rest.  Then  they  die.  He  can.  He 
has  the  temperament  that  acquiesces.  He  will  cure 


PRISONERS  271 

himself  if  he  is  left  alone.  Let  him  lie  in  the  sun,  and 
give  nature  a  chance." 

In  spite  of  his  anxiety  Wentworth  saw  that  Michael's 
bodily  strength  was  slowly  returning.  Every  after- 
noon he  left  him  half  asleep  in  the  sun,  and  rode  over 
to  see  Fay.  Since  she  had  accepted  him  it  had  become 
a  necessity  to  him  to  see  her  every  day. 

Wentworth  had  long  been  bent  to  the  dust  under 
the  pain  of  Michael's  imprisonment.  Fay  had  been 
bent  with  anguish  to  the  dust  by  the  weight  of  her 
own  silence  which  had  kept  him  there. 

And  now  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  they  both  stood 
erect,  freed.  Life  was  transfigured  for  both  at  the 
same  instant. 

This  marvellous  moment  found  them  both  just  when 
they  were  deciding  mildly  to  love  each  other.  It  took 
them  and  flung  them  together  in  a  common  overwhelm- 
ing joy.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  shock  might  make 
a  man  of  Wentworth. 

Did  he  half  know  (he  was  certainly  always  tacitly 
guarding  himself  against  the  assumption  of  such  an 
idea  in  the  minds  of  others)  that  he  had  so  far  been 
left  out,  not  only  from  the  whirl  of  life — he  had  de- 
liberately withdrawn  from  that — but  from  the  weft  of 
life  itself.  The  great  loom  had  not  swept  him  in.  It 
had  not  appeared  to  need  him.  Some  of  us  seem  to 
hang  on  the  fringe  of  life,  of  thought,  of  love,  of 
everything.  We  are  not  for  good  or  ill  interwoven 
into  the  stuff,  part  of  the  pattern. 

Wentworth  felt  young  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
happy  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  really  energetic 
for  the  first  time.  A  certain  languid  fatigue  which 


272  PRISONERS 

had  been  with  him  from  boyhood,  which  had  always  lain 
mournfully  on  its  back  waving  its  legs  in  the  air  like 
a  reversed  bettle,  had  now  been  jolted  right  side  upper- 
most, and  was  using  those  legs,  not  as  proofs  of  the 
emptiness  of  the  world,  but  as  a  means  of  locomotion. 

He  had  at  first  been  enormously  raised  in  his  own  self- 
esteem  by  his  engagement  to  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman.  He  was  permanently  relieved  from  the  neces- 
sity of  accounting  to  his  friends  for  the  fact  that  he 
was  still  unmarried,  reminding  them  that  it  was  his 
own  fault.  Perhaps  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  a  fear 
lurked,  implanted  by  the  brutal  Grenfell,  that  he  was 
going  to  be  an  old  maid.  That  fear  was  now  dispelled. 
It  was  mercifully  hidden  from  Wentworth  that  Grenfell 
and  the  Bishop  and  most  of  his  so-called  friends  would 
still  so  regard  him  even  if  he  were  married. 

But  gradually  and  insensibly  the  many  petty  reasons 
for  satisfaction  which  his  engagement  to  Fay  had 
given  him,  and  even  the  delight  in  being  loved,  were 
overshadowed  by  a  greater  presence. 

At  first  they  had  never  been  silent  together.  Went- 
worth liked  to  hear  his  own  voice,  and  prosed  stolidly 
on  for  hours  with  exquisite  enjoyment  and  an  eye  to 
Fay's  education  at  the  same  time,  about  his  plans,  his 
aspirations,  his  past  life  (not  that  he  had  had  one), 
the  hollowness  of  society  (not  that  he  knew  anything 
about  it),  a  man's  need  of  solitude,  and  the  solace  of 
a  woman's  devotion,  its  softening  effect  on  a  life  de- 
voted hitherto,  perhaps,  too  entirely  to  intellectual 
pursuits. 

Fay  did  not  listen  to  him  very  closely.  She  felt  that 
his  mind  soared  beyond  her  ken.  But  she  was  greatly 


PRISONERS  273 

impressed,  and  repeated  little  bits  of  what  he  had 
said  to  Magdalen  afterwards.  And  she  looked  at  him 
with  rapt  adoration. 

"  Wentworth  says  that  consideration  in  little  things 
is  what  makes  the  happiness  of  married  life,"  she  would 
announce  pontifically. 

"  How  true !  " 

"  And  he  says  social  life  ought  to  be  simplified." 

"  Indeed !  Does  he  happen  to  mention  how  it  is  to 
be  done?  " 

"  He  says  it  ought  to  be  regulated,  and  that  every- 
one ought  to  be  at  liberty  to  lead  their  own  life,  and 
not  to  be  expected  to  attend  cricket  matches  and  garden 
parties,  if  you  are  so  constituted  that  you  don't  find 
pleasure  in  them.  I  used  to  think  I  liked  garden  par- 
ties, Magdalen,  but  I  see  I  don't  now.  I  care  more 
for  the  big  things  of  life  now.  Does  Everard  ever 
talk  to  you  like  that  when  you  and  he  are  alone?  " 

"  Never.     Never." 

"  And  Andrea  never  did,  either.  Wentworth  is  sim- 
ply wonderful.  You  should  hear  him  speak  about 
fame  being  shallow,  and  how  the  quiet  mind  looking 
at  things  truly  is  everything,  and  peace  not  being 
to  be  found  in  the  market  place,  but  in  a  walk  by  a 
stream,  and  how  in  his  eyes  a  woman's  love  outweighs 
the  idle  glitter  of  a  social  success.  Oh !  Magdalen,  I'm 
beginning  to  feel  I'm  not  worthy  of  Wentworth.  I've 
always  liked  being  admired,  so  different  from  him.  I 
did  not  know  there  were  men  so  high-minded  as  he. 
He  makes  me  feel  very  petty  beside  him.  And  he  is  so 
humble.  He  says  I  must  not  idealise  him,  that  he  does 
not  wish  it,  for  though  he  may  not  be  worse  or  better 


274  PRISONERS 

than  I  think  he  is  only  too  conscious  of  his  many  de- 
ficiencies. But  I  can't  help  it.  Who  could?  " 

And  Fay  let  fall  a  tear. 

"  We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it." 

But  the  highest  some  of  us  can  see  is  the  nearest 
molehill. 

What  Michael  and  the  Duke  had  failed  to  do  for  Fay 
Wentworth  was  accomplishing. 

"  You  are  made  for  each  other,"  said  Magdalen,  with 
conviction.  "  Every  day  shows  me  that  you  and  Went- 
worth bring  out  the  best  in  each  other.  Perhaps,  grad- 
ually, you  will  keep  nothing  back  from  each  other,  tell 
each  other  everything." 

"  He  tells  me  everything  now,"  said  Fay.  "  He 
trusts  me  entirely." 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  Magdalen.  "  Do  you  tell  him 
everything  ?  " 

Wentworth,  too,  had  reached  the  conviction  that  he 
and  Fay  were  made  for  each  other.  He  might  have 
starved  out  the  deeper  love,  the  truth  and  tenderness 
of  a  sincerer  nature,  if  it  had  been  drawn  towards 
him.  He  had  often  imagined  himself  as  being  the  re- 
cipient of  the  lavished  devotion  of  a  woman  beautiful, 
humble,  exquisite  and  noble,  whose  truth  was  truth 
itself,  and  had  vaguely  wondered  why  she  had  not  come 
into  his  life.  But  perhaps  if  he  had  met  such  a  woman, 
and  if  she  had  loved  him  as  he  pined  to  be  loved,  he  would 
have  become  suspicious  of  her,  and  would  have  left 
her  after  many  vacillations.  He  did  not  instinctively 
recognise  humility  and  nobility  when  he  met  them, 
because  they  bore  but  slight  resemblance  to  the  stiff 


PRISONERS  275 

lay  figures  which  represented  those  qualities  in  his 
mind.  To  meet  them  in  reality  would  have  been  to 
him  bewilderment,  disappointment,  disillusion. 

Fay  was  not  only  what  he  seemed  to  want,  what  he 
had  feebly  longed  for.  She  was  more  than  this.  Her 
nature  was  the  complement  of  his.  A  lack  of  shrewd- 
ness, of  mental  grasp,  a  certain  silliness  were  absolutely 
essential  to  the  maintenance  of  a  lifelong  devotion  to 
him.  Wentworth  had  found  the  right  woman  to  give 
him  what  he  wanted.  Fay  had  found  the  right  man. 

Love,  which  had  been  knocking  urgently  at  their 
doors  for  so  many  futile  years,  heard  at  last  a  move- 
ment as  of  someone  stirring  within,  and  a  hand  upon 
the  disused  latch. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

O  Yanna,  Adrianna, 

They  buried  me  away 
In  the  blue  fathoms  of  the  deep, 

Beyond  the  outer  bay. 

But  in  the  Yule,  O  Yanna, 

Up  from  the  round  dim  sea 
And  reeling  dungeons  of  the  fog 

I  am  come  back  to  thee! 

— BLISS  CARMAN. 

WENTWORTH  stood  at  the  open  window  of  the  library 
watching  Michael. 

Michael  was  lying  on  a  deck  chair  on  the  terrace 
playing  with  a  puppy.  His  face  was  losing  a  certain 
grey  drawn  look  which  it  had  worn  since  he  had  left 
prison.  He  looked  more  like  himself  since  his  hair 
had  time  to  grow.  Wentworth  felt  that  he  ought  to 
be  reassured  about  him,  but  a  vague  anxiety  harrassed 
him. 

Suddenly,  without  a  moment's  warning,  the  puppy 
fell  asleep.  Michael  made  a  movement  to  reach  it,  but 
it  was  just  beyond  his  grasp. 

In  an  instant  Wentworth  was  beside  him,  lifting 
the  sleeping  mass  of  sleek  fat  on  to  Michael's  knee. 
Michael's  long  hands  made  a  little  crib  for  it. 

"  He  will  sleep  now  for  a  bit,"  he  said  contentedly. 

"Do  you  sleep  better?"  said  Wentworth.  He  had 
276 


PRISONERS  277 

not  forgotten  those  first  nights  at  Venice  when  Michael's 
feeble  step  had  dragged  itself  to  and  fro  in  the  next 
room  half  the  night. 

"  I  sleep  like  a  top.     I'm  asleep  half  the  time." 

"  You  are  much  better  the  last  few  days." 

"Oh!     I'm  all  right." 

"  All  Hampshire  has  been  to  call.  I  knew  you  would 
be  bored,  so  I  did  not  let  them  disturb  you." 

"  Thanks." 

"  Is  there  anyone  you  would  like  to  see  ?  " 

"  No  one  that  I  know  of." 

"  No  one  at  all?  " 

Michael  made  a  mental  effort  which  did  not  escape 
Wentworth. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  see — presently — if  it 
could  be  done " 

"  Yes,"  said  Wentworth  eagerly.  "  Of  course  it 
can  be  done,  my  dear  boy.  You  would  like  to  see?  " 

"  Doctor  Filippi,"  said  Michael,  looking  deprecat- 
ingly  at  Wentworth.  "  He  was  so  good  to  me.  And 
I  am  accustomed  to  seeing  him.  I  miss  him  all  the  time. 
I  wonder  whether  you  would  let  him  come  and  stay  here 
for  his  holiday.  He  generally  takes  it  in  June.  And — 
let  me  see — it's  May  now,  isn't  it?  " 

Wentworth's  heart  swelled  with  jealousy  and  disap- 
pointment. The  jealousy  was  of  the  doctor,  the  dis- 
appointment was  about  Fay.  The  larger  of  the  two 
emotions  was  jealousy. 

"  You  have  sent  Doctor  Filippi  a  very  handsome 
present,"  he  said  coldly.  "  I  chose  it  for  you,  a  silver 
salver.  I  went  up  to  London  on  purpose  at  your 
wish  a  week  ago." 


278  PRISONERS 

"  Y-yes." 

"  And  I  don't  think  he  would  care  to  come  here.  No 
doubt  he  has  his  own  friends.  You  must  remember 
a  man  like  that  is  poor.  It  would  be  putting  him  to 
expense." 

Michael  looked  down  at  the  sleeping  puppy.  He  did 
not  answer. 

Wentworth  was  beginning  to  fear  that  his  brother 
had  an  ungrateful,  callous  nature.  Was  Michael  so 
self-aborbed — egotism  revolted  Wentworth — that  he 
would  never  ask  to  see  Wentworth's  future  wife,  the 
woman  who  had  shown  such  unceasing,  such  tender 
interest  in  Michael  himself. 

"  I  hoped  there  was  someone  else,  someone  very  dear 
to  me,  and  a  devoted  friend  of  yours,  whom  you  might 
like  to  see  again." 

Wentworth  spoke  with  deliberation. 

"  I  could  send  him  a  cheque.  He  need  not  be  at  any 
expense,"  said  Michael  in  a  low  voice.  His  exhausted 
mind,  slower  to  move  than  ever,  had  not  left  the  sub- 
ject of  Doctor  Filippi.  His  brother's  last  remark 
had  not  penetrated  to  it. 

Wentworth  became  scarlet.  He  made  an  impatient 
movement.  Then  part  of  the  sense  of  his  brother's 
last  words  tardily  reached  Michael's  blurred  faculties. 

"  An  old  friend  of  mine,"  he  said,  vaguely  flurried. 
"What  old  friend?" 

"  Fay,"  said  Wentworth,  biting  his  lip.  "  Have  you 
forgotten  Fay  entirely?  How  she  tried  to  save  you, 
how  she  grieved  for  you?  Her  great  goodness  to  you? 
And  what  she  is  to  me!  " 

"  No,"  said  Michael.     "  No.     I  don't  forget.     Her 


PRISONERS  279 

goodness  to  me.  How  she  tried  to  save  me.  Just  so. 
Just  so.  I  don't  forget." 

"Won't  you  see  her?  She  and  Magdalen  are  driv- 
ing over  here  this  morning.  You  need  not  see  Mag- 
dalen unless  you  like." 

"  I  should  like.  She  is  going  to  be  married,  too, 
isn't  she?  I  feel  as  if  I  had  heard  someone  say  so." 

"  Yes,  to  Lossiemouth.  You  remember  him  as  Ever- 
ard  Constable,  a  touchy,  ill-conditioned,  cantankerous 
brute  if  ever  there  was  one,  who  does  not  care  a  straw 
for  anyone  but  himself.  I  can't  think  what  she  sees 
in  him.  But  an  Earl's  an  Earl.  I  always  forget  that. 
I  have  lived  so  much  apart  from  the  world  and  its  sordid 
motives  and  love  of  wealth  and  rank  that  it  is  always 
a  shock  and  a  surprise  when  I  come  in  contact  with  its 
way  of  looking  at  things.  I  never  liked  Magdalen. 
I  always  considered  her  superficial.  But  I  never 
thought  her  mercenary — till  now.  But  Fay " 

"  I  will  see  her,  too,"  said  Michael.  "  Yes,  of 
course.  I  somehow  thought  of  Fay  as — as — but  my 
mind  gets  so  confused — as  at  a  great  distance,  quite 
removed  all  this  time.  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  miles 
away  in  England.  Left  Italy  for  good." 

"  My  dear  boy,  she  is  living  at  Priesthope,  four  miles 
off.  I've  told  you  so  over  and  over  again.  I  go  and 
see  her  every  day." 

"  Yes,  at  Priesthope,  of  course.  Four  miles.  I  know 
the  way.  You  can  go  by  Wind  Farm,  or  Pilgrim  Road. 
You  did  tell  me.  More  cheerful  as  time  passes  on." 

Wentworth  looked  with  perplexity  at  Michael's  thin 
profile.  The  doctor  had  most  solemnly  assured  him 
that  his  mind  was  only  muffled  and  deadened  by  his 


280  PRISONERS 

physical  weakness.  But  it  sometimes  seemed  to  Went- 
worth  as  if  his  brother's  brain  were  softening. 

He  felt  a  sudden  return  of  the  blind  despairing  rage 
which  was  wont  to  grip  him  after  his  visits  to  Michael 
in  prison.  This  inert,  cold-blooded  shadow ;  was  this 
all  that  was  left  of  his  brother? 

A  great  tenderness  welled  up  in  his  heart,  the  old,  old 
protective  tenderness  of  many  years.  He  put  his  strong 
brown  hand  on  his  brother's  emaciated,  once  beau- 
tiful hand,  now  disfigured  by  coarse  labour,  and  scarred 
and  discoloured  at  the  wrist. 

"  Get  well,  Michael,"  he  said  huskily. 

Michael's  hand  trembled  a  little,  seemed  to  shrink 
involuntarily. 

Then  a  servant  appeared  suddenly,  coming  towards 
them  across  the  grass,  and  Wentworth  took  back  his 
hand  instantly. 

"  The  Duchess  of  Colle  Alto  and  Miss  Bellairs  are 
in  the  library." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  really  wish  to  see 
them — that  it  will  not  tire  you?  "  said  Wentworth. 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  I  will  bring  them  out." 

"  No.     Send  one  at  a  time.     Fay  first." 

Michael  lay  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

On  this  May  morning  as  Fay  and  Magdalen  drove 
together  to  Barford,  Magdalen  looked  at  her  sister's 
radiant  face,  not  with  astonishment,  she  had  got  over 
that,  but  with  something  more  like  fear. 

The  happiness  of  some  natures  terrifies  those  who 
love  them  by  its  appearance  of  brittleness.  To  Mag- 


PRISONERS  281 

dalen  Fay's  present  joy  seemed  like  a  bit  of  Venetian 
glass  on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  cabinet  at  a  child's  elbow. 

It  is  difficult  for  those  who  have  imagination  to 
understand  the  insouciance  which  looks  so  like  heart- 
lessness  of  the  unimaginative.  The  inevitable  meeting 
with  Michael  seemed  to  cast  no  shadow  on  Fay's  spirits ; 
Wentworth's  ignorance  of  certain  sinister  facts  did 
not  seem  to  disturb  her  growing  love  for  him. 

Their  way  lay  through  a  pine  wood  under  the 
shoulder  of  the  down.  The  whortleberry  with  its  tiny 
foliage  made  a  miniature  forest  of  pale  golden  green  at 
the  feet  of  the  dark  serried  trunks  of  the  pines. 

Small  yellow  butterflies  hovered  amid  the  topmost 
branches  of  this  underfoot  forest. 

Fay  leaned  out  of  the  pony  carriage  and  picked  from 
the  high  bank  a  spray  of  whortleberry  with  a  butterfly 
poised  on  it. 

"  I  thought  for  one  minute  I  might  find  a  tiny,  tiny 
butterfly  nest  with  eggs  in  it,"  she  said.  "  I  do  wish 
butterflies  had  nests  like  birds,  Magdalen,  don't  you? 
But  this  is  a  new  butterfly,  not  ready  to  fly.  I  shall 
hurt  it  unless  I'm  careful." 

She  made  her  sister  stop  the  pony,  and  knelt  down 
amid  the  shimmering  whortleberry,  and  tenderly  placed 
the  sprig  with  the  butterfly  still  clinging  to  it  in  a  little 
pool  of  sunshine.  But  as  she  did  it  the  butterfly  walked 
from  its  twig  on  to  her  white  hand  and  rested  on  it, 
opening  and  shutting  its  wings. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  watch  Fay  coax  it  to  a  leaf. 
But  Magdalen's  heart  ached  for  her  sister  as  sh«  knelt 
in  the  sunshine.  Words  rose  to  her  lips  for  the  twen- 
tieth time,  but  she  choked  them  down  again.  What 


282  PRISONERS 

use,  what  use  to  warn  those  who  cannot  be  warned, 
to  appeal  to  deaf  ears,  to  point  out  to  holden  eyes  the 
things  that  belong  to  their  peace? 

The  vision  is  the  claim,  but  it  must  be  our  own  eyes 
that  see  it.  We  may  not  look  at  our  spiritual  life 
through  another  man's  eyes. 

As  Magdalen  waited  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  blue 
haze  between  the  tree  trunks  which  was  the  sea,  and 
marked  a  white  band  like  a  ribbon  between  the  blue  and 
the  fields.  That  was  a  piece  of  land  newly  reclaimed 
from  the  sea.  When  a  tract  of  land  is  thus  captured, 
the  first  year  that  it  is  laid  open  to  the  ministry  of 
sun  and  air  and  rain  it  bears  an  overflowing  crop  of 
white  clover.  The  clover  seed  has  lain  dormant,  per- 
haps a  thousand  years  under  the  wash  of  the  wave. 
The  first  spring  tide  after  the  sea  is  withdrawn  it 
wakes  and  rushes  up.  It  was  so  now  in  that  little 
walled-in  tract  by  the  shore,  where  she  had  walked  but 
yesterday.  Surely  it  was  to  be  so  in  Fay's  heart,  now 
that  the  bitter  tides  of  remorse  and  selfishness  were 
ceasing  to  submerge  it,  now  that  at  last  joy  and  tender- 
ness were  reaching  it.  Surely,  love  itself,  the  seeds  of 
which  lie  dormant  in  every  heart,  love  like  a  marvellous 
tide  of  white  clover,  was  finding  its  chance  at  last,  and 
would  presently  inundate  her  heart. 

Then,  unharassed,  undelayed  by  vain  words  and 
futile  appeals  from  without — all  would  go  well. 

At  the  last  moment  when  the  meeting  with  Michael 
was  really  imminent  Fay's  insouciance  began,  as  Mag- 
dalen feared  it  might,  to  show  signs  of  collapse.  It 
deserted  her  entirely  as  they  drove  up  to  Barford. 


283 

"  Come  out  with  me,"  she  whispered  in  sudden  panic, 
plucking  at  her  sister's  gown,  when  Wentworth  asked 
her  to  go  and  speak  to  Michael  for  a  few  minutes  in 
the  garden.  But  Magdalen  had  drawn  back  gravely 
and  resolutely,  and  had  engaged  Wentworth's  atten- 
tion, and  Fay  had  been  obliged  to  go  alone  across  the 
lawn,  in  the  direction  of  the  deck  chair. 

Her  step,  lagging  and  irresolute,  was  hardly  audible 
on  the  grass,  but  Michael  heard  it,  recognised  it.  We 
never  forget  the  footfall,  however  light,  that  has 
trodden  on  our  heart. 

The  footfall  stopped  and  he  opened  his  eyes. 

Fay  was  standing  before  him. 

And  so  they  met  again  at  last,  those  two  who  had 
been  lovers  once.  She  looked  long  at  the  man  she  had 
broken.  He  was  worn  down  to  the  last  verge  of  ex- 
haustion, barely  more  than  a  shadow  in  the  suave  sun- 
shine. She  would  hardly  have  recognised  him  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  tranquil  steady  eyes,  and  the  grave 
smile.  They  were  all  that  was  left  of  him,  of  the 
Michael  she  had  known.  The  rest  was  unfamiliar, 
repellant.  And  his  hands !  His  hands  were  dreadful. 
Oh !  if  only  she  had  known  he  was  going  to  look  like  that 
she  would  never  have  come.  Never,  never !  Fay  ex- 
perienced the  same  unspeakable  horror  and  repugnance 
as  if,  walking  in  long,  daisy-starred  grass,  she  had  sud- 
denly stumbled  against  and  nearly  fallen  over  a  dead 
body. 

The  colour  ebbed  out  of  her  face  and  lips.  She  stood 
before  him  without  a  word,  shrinking,  transfixed. 

He  looked  long  at  her,  the  woman  for  whom  he  had 
been  content  to  suffer,  that  he  might  keep  suffering 


284  PRISONERS 

from  her.  Fay's  self  torture,  her  protracted  anguish, 
her  coward  misery,  these  were  written  as  it  were  anew 
in  her  pallid  face.  They  had  been  partially  effaced 
during  the  heedless  happiness  of  the  last  few  weeks,  but 
the  sudden  shock  of  Michael's  presence  drew  in  again 
afresh  with  a  cruel  pencil  the  haggard  lines  of  remorse 
and  despair. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  shield  her  from  pain  after 
all. 

"  Oh,  Fay !  "  he  said  below  his  breath.  "  How  you 
have  suffered." 

"  No  one  knows  what  it  has  been,"  she  said  hoarsely, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  trembling  too  much  to  stand.  "  I 
could  not  live  through  it  again.  I  couldn't  bear  it, 
and  I  had  to  bear  it." 

"  You  will  never  have  to  bear  it  again,"  he  said  with 
compassion.  "  It  is  over  and  done  with.  You  are 
going  to  be  happy  now." 

"  You  have  suffered  too,"  she  said,  reddening. 

"  Not  like  you.  It  has  been  worst  for  you.  I  never 
guessed  that  you  had  felt  my  imprisonment  so  much  as 
I  see  now  by  your  face  you  have." 

"  Not  have  felt  it !  Not  have  suffered  from  it ! " 
said  Fay,  amazed.  "  Michael,  how  could  I  help  griev- 
ing day  and  night  over  it?  " 

The  question  almost  rose  to  his  lips,  "  Why  then  did 
you  not  release  me?  "  But  the  words  were  not  spoken. 
There  is  one  pain  which  we  need  not  bear,  but  which 
some  of  us  never  rest  till  we  have  drawn  it  upon  our- 
selves, that  of  extorting  from  the  one  we  love  vain  ex- 
cuses, unconscious  lies,  feeble,  inadequate  explanations 
that  explain  nothing.  Let  be.  The  excuses,  the  lies, 


PRISONERS  285 

these  shadows  of  the  mind  will  vanish  the  moment  Love 
lights  his  lamp.  Till  then  their  ghost-like  presence, 
their  semblance  of  reality  but  show  that  the  chamber  of 
the  Beloved  is  dark. 

Michael  was  silent.  Though  his  body  and  mind 
were  half  dead,  his  spirit  was  alive  and  clear,  moving 
swiftly  where  the  spent  mind  could  not  follow. 

"  How  could  I  help  breaking  my  heart  over  the 
thought  of  you  in  prison?  "  said  Fay  again,  wounded 
to  the  quick. 

She  stared  at  him,  indignant  tears  smarting  in  her 
eyes.  Another  long  look  passed  between  them,  on  her 
side  bewildered,  pained,  aghast  at  being  so  misunder- 
stood, on  his  penetrating,  melancholy,  full  of  compas- 
sionate insight,  that  look  which  seems  to  herald  the 
parting  between  two  unequal  natures,  but  which  is  in 
reality  a  perception  that  they  have  never  met. 

"  I  knew  you  would  rejoice  when  I  was  set  free,"  he 
said  tranquilly,  smiling  at  her.  "  Ah !  Here  are 
Magdalen  and  Wentworth.  How  radiant  she  looks !  " 

When  Magdalen  and  Fay  had  departed,  and  Went- 
worth had  seen  them  to  the  carriage,  he  came  back  and 
sat  down  by  Michael. 

"  Not  over-tired  ?  "  he  said,  smiling  self-consciously, 
and  poking  holes  in  the  turf  with  his  stick. 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  She  was  looking  a  little  pale  to-day."  It  was  ob- 
vious that  he  wished  to  talk  about  Fay. 

"  She  is  more  beautiful  than  ever,"  said  Michael, 
willing  to  give  his  brother  a  leg-up. 

"  Isn't  she ! "  said  the  affianced  lover  expansively. 
"  But  it  isn't  her  beauty  I  love  most,  it  is  her  character. 


2S6  PRISONERS 

She  is  so  feminine,  so  receptive,  so  appreciative  of  the 
deeper  side  of  life,  so  absolutely  devoted.  Her  heart 
has  been  awakened  for  the  first  time,  Michael.  She 
has,  I  feel  sure,  never  been  loved  before  as  I  loved  her." 

"  I  imagine  not." 

"  I  can't  believe  she  ever  cared  for  the  Duke.  I  saw 
him  once,  and  he  gave  me  the  impression  of  a  very  cold- 
blooded individual." 

"  I  don't  think  he  was  cold-blooded." 

"  Evidently  not  the  kind  of  man  capable  of  drawing 
the  best  out  of  a  woman  like  Fay." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

The  man  who  felt  himself  capable  of  this  feat  prodded 
a  daisy  and  then  went  on : 

"  You  used  to  see  a  good  deal  of  them  in  Rome  be- 
fore— while  you  were  attache  there.  Did  you  gather 
that  it  was  a  happy  marriage,  a  true  union?  " 

"  Not  very  happy." 

"  I  daresay  he  was  selfish  and  inconsiderate.  That 
is  generally  the  crux  in  married  life.  Fay  has  had  an 
overshadowed  life  so  far,  but  I  shall  find  my  chief  hap- 
piness in  changing  all  that.  It  will  be  my  object  to 
guard  her  from  the  slightest  touch  of  pain  in  future. 
The  masculine  impulse  to  shield  and  protect  is  very 
strongly  developed  in  me." 

"  It  is  sometimes  difficult  to  guard  people,"  said 
Michael  half  to  himself. 

"  I  hope  some  day,"  Wentworth  went  on  shyly,  col- 
ouring under  his  tan,  "  your  turn  may  come,  that  you 
may  meet  the  right  woman,  and  feel  as  I  do  now.  It 
will  be  a  revelation  to  you.  I  am  afraid  it  may  seem 
exaggerated  in  a  person  like  myself,  who  am  essentially 


PRISONERS  287 

a  man's  man.  (This  was  a  favourite  illusion  of  Went- 
worth's.)  But  some  day  you  will  understand,  and  you 
will  find  as  I  have  done  that  love  is  not  just  slothfully 
accepting  a  woman's  slavish  devotion." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"  No,  Michael,  believe  me,  it  is  something  far 
greater.  It  is  living  not  only  for  self,  but  as  for  her 
sake.  To  take  trouble  to  win  the  smile  of  one  we  love, 
to  gladly  forego  one's  momentary  pleasures,  one's  con- 
venience, in  order  to  serve  her.  That  is  the  best  reward 
of  life." 

Michael's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  felt  a  hundred 
years  older  than  Wentworth  at  that  moment.  A  tender 
pained  compassion  welled  up  within  him.  And  with 
it  came  a  new  protective  comprehension  of  the  man 
beside  him  who  had  cherished  him  from  his  childhood 
onwards. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  gripped  Wentworth's. 

"4  God  bless  you,  Wenty,"  he  said. 

And  for  a  moment  they  who  were  so  far  apart  seemed 
very  near  together. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

She  sees  no  tears, 
Or  any  tone 
Of  thy  deep  groan 

She  hears : 

Nor  does  she  mind 
Or  think  on't  now 
That  ever  thou 

Wast  kind. 

— HERRICK. 

IT  quickly  became  plain  to  Magdalen  that  Fay's  peace 
of  mind  had  been  shaken  by  her  interview  with  Michael. 
She  had  vouchsafed  no  word  concerning  it  on  her  way 
home.  But  in  the  days  that  followed  she  appeared  ill 
at  ease,  and  a  vague  and  increasing  unrest  seemed  to 
possess  her.  Magdalen  doubted  whether  she  had  as 
yet  asked  herself  what  it  was  that  was  disturbing  her 
tranquillity.  But  it  was  at  any  rate  obvious  that  she 
shrank  from  seeing  Michael  again,  and  that  she  was  at 
times  dejected  in  Wentworth's  presence. 

Wentworth  perceived  the  change  in  her,  and  attrib- 
uted it  to  a  most  natural  and  pardonable  jealousy  of 
Michael  to  which,  while  he  made  the  fullest  allowance 
for  it,  he  had  no  inclination  to  yield. 

Michael  had  for  a  moment  seemed  to  take  more  in- 
terest in  life  after  Fay's  visit,  and  although  he  had 
quickly  relapsed  into  apathy  Wentworth  told  himself 
that  he  was  anxious  to  foster  this  nascent  interest  by 

288 


PRISONERS  289 

another  meeting  between  him  and  Fay.  At  the  same 
time  he  desired  to  rehearse  the  part  of  central  figure 
poised  between  two  great  devotions  which  was  to  be  his 
agreeable  role  in  the  future.  For  Michael  would  of 
course  live  with  them  after  his  marriage  with  Fay. 
And  if  there  were  any  ebullitions  of  jealousy  between 
Fay  and  Michael — Wentworth  dwelt  with  complacency 
on  the  possibility — he  felt  competent  to  deal  with  them 
with  tact  and  magnanimity,  reassuring  each  in  turn 
as  to  their  equal  share  in  his  affections. 

Michael  at  any  rate  showed  no  disinclination  to  meet 
Fay  again,  and  even  evinced  something  verging  on  a 
desire  to  see  Magdalen.  And  presently  Wentworth 
arranged  to  drive  him  over  to  luncheon  at  Priesthope. 
Throughout  life  he  had  always  liked  to  settle,  even  in 
the  most  trivial  matters,  what  Michael  should  do,  with 
whom  he  should  associate.  The  situation  was  not  new, 
nor  was  there  any  novelty  in  Michael's  pliability. 

But  when  the  day  came  Wentworth  arrived  without 
his  brother,  and  evidently  out  of  temper.  Mag- 
dalen asked  if  Michael  were  less  well,  and  was  curtly 
assured  that  he  was  steadily  improving.  The  luncheon 
dragged  through  somehow  as  under  a  cloud.  Colonel 
Bellairs  was  fortunately  absent  on  a  visit  to  Miss  Bar- 
nett  at  Saundersfoot.  His  absence  was  the  only  silver 
lining  to  the  cloud.  Fay  hardly  spoke.  Magdalen 
was  thankful  that  her  prickly  Lord  Lossiemouth  had 
departed  the  day  before. 

After  luncheon,  when  they  were  sitting  on  the  terrace 
over  their  coffee,  Bessie  left  them,  and  Magdalen 
was  about  to  do  the  same,  when  Wentworth  said  sud- 
denly : 


290  PRISONERS 

'"  I  left  Michael  with  the  Bishop  of  Lostford.  That 
is  why  he  is  not  here  now.  The  Bishop  is  inducting 
the  new  Rector  of  Wrigley  this  afternoon,  and  he  sent 
a  wire  this  morning — he  is  always  doing  things  at  the 
last  moment — he  never  considers  others — to  say  that  he 
would  call  at  Barford  on  his  way  to  see  Michael.  Mi- 
chael is  his  godson,  and  he  has  always  been  fond  of  him. 
I  left  them  together." 

Magdalen  and  Fay  sipped  their  coffee  in  silence. 

"  Michael  had  been  as  inert  and  apathetic  as  usual," 
continued  Wentworth  sullenly,  "  until  the  Bishop  ap- 
peared. The  Bishop  took  him  off  into  the  garden, 
though  I  said  I  did  not  like  his  going  out  so  soon  after 
dressing — he  was  only  just  up — and  it  was  perfectly 
plain  they  did  not  want  me.  I  believe  that  was  why 
they  went  out.  I  was  of  no  account.  The  Bishop  has 
always  been  like  that,  your  friend  one  day,  and  oblivious 
of  you  the  next.  But  he  and  Michael  seemed  to  have 
a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other.  I  watched  them  from 
the  library  walking  up  and  down.  Michael  can  walk 
quite  well  when  he  wants  to.  Then  when  the  victoria 
came  round — I  thought  he  would  find  that  less  fatiguing 
than  the  dogcart — I  went  to  tell  him  that  it  was  time 
to  start,  but  he  only  stared  vaguely  at  me,  and  the 
Bishop  took  his  arm  and  said  that  you  must  excuse  him 
for  this  once,  as  he  did  not  mean  to  let  him  go  at  that 
moment.  So  I  came  away  without  him." 

"  There  will  be  many  more  opportunities  of  seeing 
us,  and  one  must  clutch  what  few  chances  one  can  of 
seeing  the  Bishop,"  said  Magdalen. 

"  When  I  went  to  warn  Michael  that  the  carriage 
was  there,"  continued  Wentworth,  "  he  did  not  see  me 


PRISONERS  291 

till  I  was  quite  near — there  was  a  bush  between — and  I 
could  not  help  hearing  him  say,  '  That  was  half  an 
hour  before  I  was  arrested.' ' 

There  was  an  uneasy  silence. 

"  It  seems,"  said  Wentworth  with  exceeding  bitter- 
ness, "  that  I  have  not  Michael's  confidence.  The 
Bishop  has  it,  but  I,  his  only  brother.  Oh,  no.  He 
can  talk  to  the  Bishop  about  his  imprisonment,  but  to 
me — not  a  word,  not  a  single  word.  At  first  when  we 
were  together  at  Venice  I  asked  him  quietly  about  it 
once  or  twice.  I  asked  him  why  he  had  never  said  a 
word  to  me  about  it  at  the  time,  why  he  had  not  con- 
fided to  me  at  any  rate  that  he  was  shielding  the  Mar- 
chesa,  but  I  soon  saw  that  the  subject  distressed  him. 
He  always  became  confused,  and  he  never  would  reply. 
Once,  since  we  were  back  at  Barford,  when  he  seemed 
clearer,  I  asked  him  most  earnestly  to  tell  me  one  thing, 
whether  he  actually  witnessed  the  murder  of  the  Mar- 
chese  by  his  wife,  as  she  supposed,  and  what  had  first 
put  it  into  his  head  to  take  the  blame  on  himself.  But 
it  seemed  that  any  allusion  to  the  subject  exhausted  and 
worried  him.  I  said  to  him  at  last :  '  Do  you  still  hate 
talking  of  it  as  much  as  ever?  '  And  he  said  '  yes.'  I 
could  understand  that,  and  from  that  day  to  this  J 
never  alluded  to  it  again.  But  though  he  won't  say 
a  word  to  me,  it  seems  he  can  to  others." 

The  miserable  jealousy  in  Wentworth's  face  touched 
Magdalen. 

"  He  knew  you  had  strained  every  nerve  to  save  him," 
said  Wentworth,  turning  to  Fay.  "  Has  he  ever  shown 
his  gratitude  for  what  you  tried  to  do  for  him?  " 

"  N-no,"  stammered  Fay. 


292 

"  His  imprisonment  has  changed  his  nature,  that  is 
what  it  is.  He  went  in  alive,  and  he  has  come  out  dead. 
He  has  ceased  to  care  for  anything  or  anyone.  He  has 
been  killed  by  inches.  He  was  so  affectionate  as  a  boy. 
I  was  father  and  mother  to  him.  He  used  to  trot  after 
me  like  a  little  dog.  And  if  anyone  had  his  whole  con- 
fidence I  had.  I  was  everything  to  him.  My  one  fear 
of  marrying  has  always  been  that  he  might  feel  pained 
at  seeing  another  person  first  with  me."  (Wentworth 
had  never  had  this  altruistic  misgiving,  but  he  stated  it 
with  conviction.)  "  But  now  he  is  not  the  same.  I 
suppose  he  still  has  some  affection  for  me.  He  shows 
it  sometimes  by  a  kind  of  effort.  He  seemed  to 
wake  up  a  bit  after  you  came  over,  Fay.  I  think 
he  had  a  sort  of  glimpse  from  things  I  said  to  him  of 
what  love  can  be,  and  just  for  a  moment  he  was  more 
like  his  old  self,  and  appeared  to  enter  into  my  feelings. 
But  he  soon  sank  back  again.  As  often  as  not  he 
seems  to  shrink  from  any  real  conversation.  We  some- 
times sit  whole  evenings  together  without  speaking. 
He  does  not  really  want  me  any  more,  or  anyone.  He 
talked  at  first  a  little  about  the  Italian  doctor,  but  he 
never  mentions  him  now.  And  as  for  my  marriage,  as 
for  being  distressed  by  my  caring  for  someone  else," 
resentfully,  "  he  is  absolutely  indifferent.  You  would 
think  that  Fay  and  I,  the  two  people  of  all  others  who 
have  done  most  for  him,  who  have  grieved  most  over 
him,  who  have  shown  him  most  affection,  were  nothing 
to  him." 

There  was  a  ghastly  silence. 

"  I  don't  blame  him,"  said  Wentworth  with  some- 
thing nearer  passion  than  he  had  ever  experienced  be- 


PRISONERS  293 

fore,  in  which  even  his  petty  jealousy  was  momentarily 
extinguished.  "  At  least,  I  can't  look  at  him  and  remain 
angry  with  him.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  him  like 
this,  so  callous,  so  regardless  of  all  I  have  suffered  on 
his  account.  I  don't  blame  him.  He  is  not  himself. 
His  brain  is  weakened  by  his  poor  body.  No.  The 
person  I  do  blame  is  that  accursed  woman  who  allowed 
him  to  suffer  for  her,  who  skulked  behind  him  for  two 
endless  years,  who  let  him  sacrifice  his  life  for  hers, 
who  never  had  the  courage  to  say  the  word,  and  take 
her  crime  upon  herself,  and  get  him  out  of  his  living 
grave." 

Fay  became  cold  as  death  in  the  May  sunshine.  What 
ghost  was  this  which  was  taking  form  before  her? 
What  voice  was  this,  how  could  it  be  Wentworth's  voice, 
which  was  saying  at  last  aloud  with  passion  what  that 
other  accusing  voice  within  had  so  hoarsely,  so  per- 
sistently whispered  from  its  cell,  during  the  long  years? 
Her  brain  reeled. 

"  The  Marchesa  did  repent,"  said  Magdalen. 

Wentworth  laughed  harshly. 

"  Oh,  yes.  On  her  deathbed,  in  order  to  save  her 
soul.  She  wanted  to  be  right  with  the  next  world.  But 
how  could  she  go  on,  year  in  year  out,  letting  him  burn 
and  freeze  alternately  in  that  vile  cell?  She  must  have 
known,  someone  must  have  told  her,  what  his  life  was 
like.  How  well  I  remember,  Fay,  your  saying :  '  Why 
does  not  the  real  murderer  confess?  How  can  he  go 
on  letting  an  innocent  man  wear  out  his  life  in  prison, 
bearing  the  punishment  of  his  horrible  crime?'  How 
little  we  both  knew.  I  always  supposed  the  assassin 
was  a  man,  a  common  criminal  of  the  lowest  order. 


294  PRISONERS 

Yet  it  seems  there  are  women  in  the  world,  educated, 
refined  women,  who  can  remorselessly  pinch  a  man's  life 
out  of  him  with  their  white  hands.  The  Marchesa  has 
murdered  two  people,  first  her  husband,  and  then  my 
boy,  my  foolish,  quixotic,  generous  Michael.  May  God 
forgive  her !  I  never  will !  " 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

But  one  man  loved  the  pilgrim  soul  in  you. 

— W.  B.  YEATS. 

Je  veux  aimer,  mais  je  ne  veux  pas  souffrir. 

— A.  DE  MUSSET. 

Ix  the  days  that  followed  the  Bishop's  visit  Michael's 
mind  showed  signs  of  reasserting  itself.  He  was  as 
quickly  exhausted  as  ever,  and  with  fatigue  came  the 
old  apathy  and  helpless  confusion  of  ideas.  But  his 
languid  intelligence  had  intervals  of  increasing  clear- 
ness. His  face  took  on  at  these  times  a  strained  ex- 
pression, as  if  he  dimly  saw  something  with  which  he 
felt  powerless  to  cope.  We  see  such  a  look  sometimes, 
very  piteous  in  its  impotence,  in  the  faces  of  the  old, 
when  an  echo  reaches  them  of  the  anguish  of  the  world 
in  which  they  once  lived,  which  they  have  well  nigh 
forgotten. 

Michael's  body,  which  had  so  far  profited  by  the 
inertness  of  his  faculties,  resented  the  change,  and  gave 
unmistakable  signs  of  relinquishing  the  slight  degree  of 
strength  it  had  regained. 

Wentworth  became  suddenly  frantically  anxious  once 
more,  and  in  a  moment  the  wrongs  on  which  he  was 
brooding  were  forgotten.  He  decided  to  go  to  Lon- 
don the  same  day  under  the  guise  of  business,  and  to 
consult  the  great  doctor  privately  about  Michael,  per- 
haps arrange  to  bring  him  back  with  him. 

295 


296  PRISONERS 

"  I  wish  you  would  drive  oftener,"  he  said  to  Michael 
before  he  left.  "  It's  much  better  for  you  than  walk- 
ing up  and  down.  Why  not,  if  you  feel  inclined,  as 
you  will  be  alone  all  day,  drive  over  to  Priesthope  this 
afternoon.  I  said  you  would  come  the  first  day  you 
could.  It's  only  four  miles,  just  an  easy  little  drive." 

An  indefinable  change  passed  over  Michael's  vacant 
face  at  the  mention  of  Priesthope.  His  eyes  became 
fixed.  He  looked  gravely  at  his  brother,  as  if  the  latter 
had  solved  some  difficult  problem. 

"  It's  a  good  idea,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  ought  to 
have  gone  before,  but — 

"  The  Bishop  stopped  you  most  inconsiderately 
last  time." 

"Did  he?  I  don't  remember  being  stopped.  Oh! 

yes,  yes,  I  do.  But  if  I  had  gone  that  day But 

anyhow  I  will  go  to-day." 

Fay  was  sitting  alone  in  the  morning-room  at 
Priesthope,  pretending  to  read,  when  Michael  was 
announced. 

When  he  had  been  conveyed  to  a  chair  and  had  over- 
come the  breathlessness  and  semi-blindness  that  any 
exertion  caused  him  he  saw  that  she  looked  ill,  and  as 
if  she  had  not  slept. 

"  I  ought  to  have  come  before,"  he  said  mechanically, 
making  a  great  mental  effort  and  putting  his  hand  to 
his  head.  "  I  meant  to  come,  but —  "  he  looked  hope- 
lessly at  her.  He  had  evidently  forgotten  what  he  in- 
tended to  say. 

"  The  day  you  were  coming  with  Wentworth  the 
Bishop  stopped  you,"  said  Fay  drearily.  Every  word 


PRISONERS  297 

that  Wentworth  had  said  that  afternoon  was  still  echo- 
ing discordantly  in  her  brain. 

"  That's  it.  The  Bishop,"  said  Michael  with  relief. 
"  He  told  me,  we  had  a  long  talk  " — his  mind  was  clear- 
ing rapidly — "  how  you  meant  to  save  me." 

"  Yes,  I  meant  to  do  it,"  said  Fay,  looking  at  him 
with  miserable  eyes.  "  But  the  Marchesa,  the  same 
day — it  was  in  the  papers." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  The  Bishop  told  me.  He  said  I 
ought  to  know  that  you  had  been  willing  to  make  the 
sacrifice.  I  have  come  to  thank  you,  Fay,  and  to  ask 
you  to  forgive  me  for  misjudging  you.  You  see  I  was 
not  aware  you — had  thought  of  it." 

"  It's  for  you  to  forgive  me,  Michael,  not  me  you. 
And  you  don't  bear  me  a  grudge,  do  you?  I  somehow 
don't  feel  as  if  you  did.  And — oh,  Michael,  you  never, 
never  will  say  anything  or  do  anything,  will  you — you 
could,  you  know — to  stop  my  marrying  Wentworth?  " 

Michael's  eyes  turned  on  her  almost  with  scorn. 

"  When  first  we  met  again,  that  second  time  in  Italy," 
he  said  gently,  "  do  you  remember  it  by  the  tomb  in 
the  gardens  ?  There  were  roses  all  over  it.  I  never  saw 
such  roses.  Perhaps  there  were  none  like  them.  Then 
I  had  no  faintest  thought  or  hope  of  marrying  you, 
though  I  had  not  forgotten  you,  Fay.  I  had  put  it 
all  away,  buried  it.  You  were  another  man's  wife. 
Now  that  we  meet  again — the  position  is  the  same." 

Fay  looked  at  Michael. 

The  impersonal  detached  look  which  she  had  set  her- 
self to  extinguish  that  day  amid  the  roses,  which  had 
been  in  his  face  when  she  saw  him  first  as  a  lad,  which 
she  had  twice  extinguished,  was  in  his  eyes  again. 


298  PRISONERS 

There  was  no  pain  in  them  now,  any  more  than  there 
had  been  when  they  leaned  together  beside  the  tomb: 
only  the  shadow  of  something  exceeding  sharp,  endured, 
accepted,  outlived.  Michael  looked  through  her,  be- 
yond her. 

"  And  yet  the  position  is  not  quite  the  same,"  he  said 
tranquilly,  "  for  then  you  were  married  to  a  man  you 
did  not  love,  and  now  you  are  to  marry  a  man  you — Oh ! 
Fay,  you  do  care  for  Wentworth,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  would  not  have  kept  him  in  prison  for  a  day," 
she  said,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

If  only  it  might  have  been  Wentworth  who  had  sacri- 
ficed himself  for  her  with  what  desperate  rapidity  she 
would  have  rescued  him.  How  calm  her  agonised  heart 
would  be  now.  Fay  was  beginning  to  learn  that  it  is 
ill  to  take  a  service  save  from  the  hand  we  love.  And 
perhaps,  too,  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  Wentworth 
would  never  have  sacrificed  himself  for  her,  for  Michael 
possibly,  but  not  for  her. 

"  Wentworth  is  worth  caring  for,"  said  Michael. 
"  Not  worth  caring  for  in  part,  a  bit  here  and  a  bit 
there,  who  is?  but  worth  caring  for  altogether.  I  have 
loved  him  all  my  life.  I  love  him  more  than  anyone  in 
the  world.  You  asked  me  just  now  not  to  say  anything 
to  stop  his  marrying  you.  But  that  is  just  what  I've 
come  about.  I  am  so  afraid  of  his  marriage  with  you 
being  stopped." 

Fay  raised  her  face  out  of  her  hands,  and  stared  at 
him. 

"  It's  the  only  thing  I've  ever  known  him  really  wish 
for,  almost  keen  about.  He  can't  care  much  about 
things,  not  as  other  men  care.  He  has  always  waited 


PRISONERS  299 

to  see  whether  things  will  come  to  him  of  themselves, 
and  then  if  they  didn't  he  thought  it  was  a  wise  Provi- 
dence taking  them  away,  showing  him  the  vanity  of 
setting  his  heart  on  anything,  while  all  the  time  it's 
his  own  nature  really  that  makes  things  somehow  slip 
away  from  him.  People  slip  away  from  him.  I've 
seen  it  happen  over  and  over  again.  He  can't  take  hold 
like  other  men.  He  does  not  put  himself  out  for  any 
one,  you  know,  and  he  doesn't  realise  that  other  people 
do;  he  has  no  idea  how  men  like  the  Bishop  and  Gren- 
fell  and  the  Archbishop  stand  by  each  other,  and  hold 
together  through  thick  and  thin.  Wentworth  has  no 
friends,  but  he  doesn't  know  it.  He  has  only  you  and 
me.  The  Bishop  said  we  must  remember  that,  and  that 
if — anything  happened  to  shake  his — his  feeling  for 
either  of  us,  his  belief  in  either  of  us,  it  would  be 
cruelly  hard  on  him." 

"  Why  should  anything  happen,"  said  Fay  faintly, 
"if  you  don't  tell  him?" 

"  I  shan't  tell  him  on  purpose,  you  may  be  sure  of 
that,  but  since — since  the  Bishc,/  came  over  I'm  certain 
he  suspects  something,  I  don't  know  what,  and  I  have 
to  be  careful  all  the  time.  Fay,  I've  grown  so  stupid 
and  muddle-headed  since  I've  been  in — in  Italy  that  I 
can't  remember  what  I  may  say  and  what  I  mayn't  about 
that  time.  My  only  safety  is  in  absolute  silence,  and 
lately  that  has  begun  to  vex  him.  And  he  asks  such 
odd  questions,  which  I  don't  see  the  meaning  of  at  first, 
like  traps.  He  often  tells  me  he  never  asks  any  ques- 
tions, but  he  does,  indirect  ones,  all  the  time.  I'm 
getting  afraid  of  being  alone  with  him.  Sometimes  I 
think  if  I  stay  much  longer  at  Barford  I'm  so  idiotic 


300  PRISONERS 

he'll  get  it  out  of  me.     Has  he  asked  you  any  leading 
questions  ?  " 

"  No.  Once  he  asked  if  you  showed  any  gratitude 
for  what  I  had  done  for  you  in  the  past.  And  I  said 
no.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  told  him  a  lie,  for  it  was 
a  lie  except  in  the  actual  words." 

"  Aren't  you  afraid,"  said  Michael  gently,  "  that  it 
may  not  be  the  only  one,  that  perhaps  there  may  be 
some  more?  " 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  I  think  Wentworth  will  find  out  some  day,"  he  went 
on.  "  I'm  sure  he  will.  Then,  Fay,  it  might  be  too 
late  for  you  and  me  to  save  him  from  a  great  pain. 
He  might  feel  that  we  had  both  betrayed  him." 

Fay  turned  her  quivering  face  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  haven't  done  that.  It's  you  I  betrayed, 
Michael.  I'm  so  thankful  it  was  you,  and  not  him." 

"  I  was  yours  to  keep  or  to  throw  away.  You  could  do 
what  you  liked  with  your  own.  But  it  is  not  the  same 
for  Wentworth.  Wentworth  belongs — to  himself." 

In  her  heart  she  knew  it.  Love  had  shown  even  her 
certain  things  about  the  man  she  loved. 

"  And  I  am  afraid  he  might  feel  it  if  he  found  out 
that  you  had  let  me  stay — in  Italy." 

"  I'd  give  anything  I  have,"  she  said  with  a  sob ;  "  I'd 
give  both  my  hands,  I'd  give  my  being  pretty,  which  I 
think  so  much  of,  and  he  thinks  so  much  of,  I'd 
give  anything  if  only  I  had  not — done  that,  if  I  could 
only  undo  that.  Sometimes  I  wake  in  the  morning 
and  think  I  haven't  done  it,  that  it's  only  a  dream. 
And  it's  like  Heaven!  I  cry  for  joy.  And  then  the 
knowledge  comes.  I  did  not  know,  Michael,  what  I 


PRISONERS  301 

was  doing.  But  since  you  came  back  I've  seen;  since 
I  loved  Wentworth  I've  seen — what  I've  done  to  you ; 
just  brushed  you  aside  when  you  got  in  the  way,  and 
left  you  to  die." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence.  It  had  come,  the  mo- 
ment of  anguished  realisation  that  he  had  foreseen  for 
her,  but  it  had  come  to  her  through  love  for  another. 
That  to  which  his  great  love  would  fain  have  drawn 
her,  she  had  reached  at  last  by  a  lesser  love  than  his. 

"  I  have  been  cruel  to  Wentworth.  I  might  have 
tried  to  get  you  out  for  his  sake  if  not  for  yours.  He 
never  had  a  moment's  happiness  while  you  were  shut 
up.  But  I  didn't.  I  didn't  really  care  for  him  then. 
I  only  tried  at  last  to  get  you  out,  because  I  could  not 
bear  the  misery  of  it  any  longer.  I  have  never  cared 
for  anyone  but  myself — till  now.  I  see  now  that  I  have 
been  hard  and  cruel.  I  have  always  thought  myself 
gentle  and  loving  and  tender-hearted,  like  you  thought 
me,  poor,  poor  Michael.  You  have  paid  for  that. 
Like  Wentworth  thinks  me  now.  Oh,  Michael,  must 
Wentworth  pay  too?  " 

Michael  looked  at  her  with  compassion.  "  I  am 
afraid  he  must.  But  do  not  let  him  pay  a  penny  more 
than  is  necessary.  You  still  have  it  in  your  power  to 
save  him  part  of  the — the  expense.  Let  him  pay  the 
lesser  price  instead  of  the  greater.  Tell  him,  instead 
of  letting  him  find  out." 

Silence. 

"  It  is  the  only  thing  to  do,  Fay." 

No  answer. 

**  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  love  him  after  all,"  said 
the  inexorable  voice. 


PRISONERS 

Again  silence. 

Michael  dragged  himself  feebly  from  his  chair,  and 
took  her  clenched  hands  between  both  of  his. 

"  Love  him  a  little  more,"  he  said.  "  Take  the  risk 
and  tell  him  everything — while  there  is  still  time.  Lis- 
ten, Fay,  and  try  to  forgive  me  if  I  seem  cruel.  You 
thought  you  loved  me  once.  But  it  was  not  enough  to 
risk  anything  for  me.  You  threw  me  away  by  your 
silence  because  you  found  the  truth  too  difficult.  Don't, 
don't  throw  Wentworth  away  too,  because  the  truth  is 
difficult.  Fay,  believe  me,"  Michael's  voice  shook,  "  it's 
hard  to  find  out  you've  been  deceived.  It's  hard  to  be 
betrayed."  His  voice  had  sunk  to-  a  broken  whisper. 
"  Don't  put  him  through  it.  You  wouldn't  if  you — 
if  you  knew  what  it  was  like." 

Magdalen,  coming  in  half  an  hour  later  found  Fay 
lying  on  her  face  on  the  sofa  alone.  She  looked,  poor 
little  creature,  with  her  outstretched  arms,  not  unlike 
a  cross  on  which  Love  might  very  well  be  crucified  anew. 
It  does  not  matter  much  whether  it  is  on  a  cross  of  wood, 
or  of  fear,  or  of  egotism,  that  we  nail  Love  to  his 
slow  death. 

Fay  loved  for  the  first  time.  Was  she  going  to  cru- 
cify that  love,  to  pierce  its  upholding  hands,  to  betray 
that  benign  saviour,  come  so  late  but  come  at  last,  to 
help  her  in  her  sore  need? 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. — TENNYSON. 

"  Now,"  said  the  great  doctor  to  Michael  next  day, 
"  I  have  been  hustled  down  here  against  my  will  by  Mr. 
Maine.  I'm  wanted  elsewhere.  I  calculate  my  time  at 
a  pound  a  minute.  Out  with  it.  What  is  it  that's 
worrying  you?  " 

Michael  did  not  answer. 

The  great  man  groaned.     But  his  eyes  were  kindly. 

"  You  want  something  you  have  not  got,  eh  ?  like  the 
rest  of  us.  We  are  all  in  the  same  steam  launch." 

"  I  don't  want  anything,  thanks." 

"In  love?" 

"  No." 

"  Quite  sure?  I  have  always  observed  that  people 
who  are  in  love  are  desperately  offended  at  the  bare 
supposition  that  such  a  thing  is  possible.  Things  might 
be  arranged,  you  know.  Young  women  aren't  intended 
by  nature  to  live  single  any  more  than  you  are.  Would 
a  few  weeks  in  London  meet  the  case?  The  season's 
just  beginning.  No  theatres,  of  course,  and  no  late 
hours.  Your  brother  here  seems  made  of  money, 
though  he  will  soon  be  ruined  if  he  goes  on  sending  for 
me.  For  I  always  charge  double  if  I'm  sent  for  un- 
necessarily. Come,  sir,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Michael,  half  amused.  He  was 
still  exhausted  by  his  expedition  to  Priesthope  of  the 

303 


304  PRISONERS 

previous  day.  "  I  don't  want  anything,  thanks.  I'm 
—all  right." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  change?  " 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  said  Michael  with  a 
flicker  of  interest.  "  Now  you  mention  it — yes.  That's 
the  very  thing.  I  should  like — a  change." 

Wentworth  came  forward  at  once. 

"  Norway  ?  "  he  said  eagerly,  "  or  Switzerland.  We 
must  be  guided  by  you,  doctor.  Or  a  yacht?  You 
used  to  be  fond  of  yachting,  Michael.  We  will  go 
anywhere  you  like." 

Michael's  face  fell. 

The  doctor  leaned  back  and  examined  his  finger  tips. 
He  had  seen  what  he  wanted. 

"  The  yacht  won't  do,"  he  said  with  decision.  "  And 
Norway's  out  of  the  question.  Much  too  far.  In  fact, 
there's  only  one  place  that  will  do." 

"  Where  is  that  ?  "  said  Wentworth. 

"  I  don't  know  yet.     Where  is  it,  Mr.  Carstairs  ?  " 

"  I  should  like,"  said  Michael,  colouring  painfully, 
for  he  knew  he  was  going  to  hurt  Wentworth,  "  I 
should  like  to  go  to  Lostford;  not  for  long,  just  for  a 
little  bit." 

"  Lostford !  "  exclaimed  Wentworth,  amazed.  "  Lost- 
ford,  down  in  that  hole.  Oh !  no." 

"  Well,  and  why  not  Lostford?  "  said  the  doctor  with 
asperity.  "  Mr.  Carstairs  shows  his  sense.  He  is 
not  up  to  a  long  journey.  Quite  near.  Interesting 
cathedral.  Cultivated  society.  I  should  have  sug- 
gested Lostford  myself  if  he  had  not." 

"  I  will  ride  over  and  take  rooms  at  the  '  Prince  Con- 
sort '  to-day,"  said  Wentworth  meekly. 


PRISONERS  305 

"  You  will  do  no  such  thing.  Are  you  taking  leave 
of  your  senses.  Your  brother  is  not  fit  to  stay  in  a 
rackety  hotel." 

"  The  Bishop  has  asked  me,"  said  Michael  faintly, 
"  to  spend  a  week  or  two  with  him  whenever  I  like.  I 
believe — it's  very  quiet  there." 

"  The  Bishop !  "  said  Wentworth.  "  It  would  be  far 
from  quiet  at  the  Palace.  Worse  than  an  hotel.  The 
Bishop  lives  in  a  perpetual  turmoil." 

Then  he  suddenly  stopped  short,  and  became  very 
red.  Michael  preferred  the  Bishop  to  himself. 

"  It's  a  good  idea,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  know  the 
Bishop.  Splendid  man.  The  best  of  company."  He 
got  up  with  decision.  "  My  orders  are,  Mr.  Carstairs, 
that  you  proceed  to  Lostford  without  delay.  How  far 
is  it?  Six  miles.  Go  to-morrow."  Then  he  turned 
to  Wentworth.  "  You  will  go  over  and  see  him  in  a 
week's  time,  and  report  to  me." 

"  You  think  him  worse,"  said  Wentworth  nervously 
to  the  doctor  in  the  hall. 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor  emphatically,  watching  his 
motor  sliding  to  the  door,  "  but  he  is  not  better.  He  is 
anxious  about  something,  and  he  can't  afford  to  be 
anxious.  He  is  not  in  a  fit  state  to  have  a  finger  ache 
with  impunity." 

"  He  has  nothing  to  be  anxious  about,"  said  Went- 
worth. "  And  if  he  had  a  trouble  I  should  be  the  first 
to  hear  of  it.  I  have  his  entire  confidence — at  least,  I 
had  till  lately.  I  must  own  he  has  become  very  changed 
of  late.  Of  course,  I  never  appear  to  notice  it, 
but " 

"  Quite  right.     Quite  right.     I  wish  others  were  as 


306  PRISONERS 

sagacious  as  you  are.  Let  him  go  to  Lostford  for  a 
week  or  two — and  get  you  off  his  nerves,"  the  doctor 
added  to  himself  as  the  motor  shot  down  the  beech 
avenue. 

A  few  days  later  Wentworth  was  sitting  idly  watch- 
ing the  stream  of  Piccadilly  from  the  windows  of  his 
club.  The  same  day  that  Michael  had  gone  to  Lost- 
ford  he  had  discovered  that  he  had  business  in  London. 
He  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  say  what  his  busi- 
ness there  was.  But  one  of  Wentworth's  many  theories 
about  himself  was  that  he  was  a  very  busy  man.  He 
had  so  constantly  given  "  urgent  business  "  as  a  reason 
for  evading  uncongenial  social  engagements  that  he 
had  finished  by  believing  himself  to  be  overwhelmed  with 
arduous  affairs.  So  he  went  to  London,  and  visited  a 
publisher  anent  his  forthcoming  history  of  Sussex,  and 
dined  with  a  man  whom  he  met  at  Lord's,  whom  he  had 
not  seen  for  years,  and  wrote  daily  to  Fay,  expressing 
ardent  but  vague  hopes  that  he  might  be  able  to  "  get 
away  "  from  London  by  the  end  of  the  week. 

He  was  in  no  hurry  to  return. 

A  vague  fear  of  something  grievously  amiss  with 
Michael,  he  knew  not  what;  an  unformulated  anxiety 
weighed  upon  him.  And  he  was  jealous.  Jealousy 
had  brought  him  up  to  London.  He  was  not  going  to 
remain  deserted  at  Barford.  Jealousy  was  keeping 
him  there  now.  He  had  seen  that  Michael  was  glad  to 
get  away  from  him,  that  he  had  caught  at  the  doctor's 
suggestion  of  a  change.  His  sullen  heart  was  very 
sore  about  Michael.  Why  did  he  want  to  leave  him? 
Where  would  he  meet  anyone  more  devoted  to  him  than 


PRISONERS  307 

himself?  What  could  any  man  do  for  another  that  he 
had  not  done  for  Michael?  Was  it  true  then,  after  all, 
what  he  had  so  often  heard  was  the  fate  of  men  of  deep 
affections  like  himself,  that  they  give  all,  and  are  given 
nothing  in  return. 

A  sudden  exclamation  made  him  look  up. 

"  Why,  Maine,  is  it  you  ?  " 

A  tall,  bald  man  was  holding  out  his  hand  to  him. 
For  a  moment  Wentworth  did  not  recognise  him.  Then 
he  remembered  him.  Lord  John  Alington. 

He  shook  hands  with  tepid  civility,  but  Lord  John 
always  mistook  a  pained  recognition  for  an  enthusi- 
astic welcome.  He  drew  up  a  chair  at  once. 

"  Now  this  is  what  I  call  luck,"  he  said,  his  red  face 
beaming.  "  And  so  your  brother  is  freed  at  last.  Only 
heard  the  news  when  I  landed  from  Norway  a  week 
ago.  I  congratulate  you  with  my  whole  heart.  I 
never  was  so  glad  about  anything  before."  And  Lord 
John  sawed  Wentworth's  limp  hand  up  and  down. 

"  I  was  present,  you  know,"  he  went  on.  "  Made  a 
great  impression  on  me.  Sobered  me  for  a  long  time 
I  can  tell  you.  I  saw  Carstairs  come  forward  and  give 
himself  up.  Never  had  such  a  shock  in  my  life." 

"  I  remember  now  you  were  there." 

"  Rather.  And  I  was  dead  certain  from  the  first 
that  he  had  never  done  it.  I  always  said  so.  And  now 
at  last  the  mystery  is  cleared  up.  And  I  was  proved 
right.  He  hadn't.  But  fancy  shielding  that  old  Mar- 
chesa  with  her  long  teeth.  Why,  she  was  forty  if  she 
was  a  day.  Who  would  ever  have  thought  of  it !  " 

"  No  one  did,"  said  Wentworth. 

"  I  didn't.     I  may  tell  you  frankly  that  I  did  not. 


308  PRISONERS 

The  Marchesa!  I  knew  her.  But  it  never  so  much  as 
crossed  my  mind  that  she  had  massacred  her  old  hubby. 
4  Good  God !  The  Marchesa ! '  Those  were  my  exact 
words  when  I  heard  a  week  ago.  Is  Carstairs  in  Lon- 
don? I  should  like  just  to  shake  him  by  the  hand." 

"  He  is  not  in  town.  He  is  still  feeling  the  effects 
of  his  imprisonment." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him.  It  was  my  fault  he 
was  found  you  know.  I  said  *  Perhaps  he's  behind  the 
screen.'  Dreadfully  sorry.  Wish  I  hadn't.  Only  my 
fun.  Never  thought  he  was  there,  or  anyone.  I've 
never  forgotten  his  coming  out  from  behind  the  screen. 
But  what  I  want  to  know  is,"  Lord  John  tapped  Went- 
worth on  the  arm  with  his  eyeglass,  and  lowered  his 
voice  confidentially,  '*  isdiy  lie  ever  went  behind  it.  That's 
what  has  been  puzzling  me  ever  since  I  read  the  Mar- 
chesa's  confession.  If  he  wanted  to  shield  her,  why  the 
deuce  did  he  hide  at  all?  Why  not  strike  a  noble  atti- 
tude bang  in  the  middle  of  the  room — from  the  first?  " 

Wentworth  looked  at  him  astonished.  The  vague 
suspicion  of  the  last  weeks  that  Michael  was  concealing 
something  from  him  was  taking  shape  at  last. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Lord  John  had  got  hold  of 
a  listener. 

"  No,  no,  Maine.  When  Carstairs  was  hiding  behind 
the  screen  he  was  not  dying  with  anxiety  to  take  the 
Marchesa's  crime  on  his  white  shoulders — not  at  that 
moment.  That  explanation  don't  wash.  I  believe  I 
know  a  better  one." 

Wentworth  became  very  red. 

"  The  Duchess's  maid!  Did  you  ever  see  her?  No, 
evidently  not.  You've  no  time  for  looking  at  young 


PRISONERS  309 

maids.  Taken  up  with  contemplating  an  old  maid  in 
the  glass.  You  miss  a  lot,  I  can  tell  you.  She  was  the 
prettiest  little  baggage  I've  set  eyes  on  for  years.  And 
she  was  not  of  an  iron  virtue.  But  she  wouldn't  look 
at  a  little  thing  like  me.  Can't  think  why.  Come, 
now,  don't  look  so  demure.  We  aren't  all  plaister  saints 
like  you.  I'm  not,  in  spite  of  my  Madonna  face. 
Wasn't  that  the  truth?  The  Marchesa  story  is  for 
the  gallery.  But  you  and  I  are  behind  the  scenes. 
Mum's  the  word.  But  wasn't  that  why  Carstairs  was 
hanging  about  the  house  after  everyone  else  had  gone 
just  for  the  same  reason  that  I  was — to  get  a  word 
with  that  little  hussy?" 

At  that  moment  a  tall,  middle-aged  man  came  into 
the  room,  and  Lord  John's  roving  eye  fell  upon  him. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Lossiemouth,"  he  said,  seizing  the  latter's  unwill- 
ing hand.  "  Why,  you're  the  very  man  I  wanted  to 
see.  Congratulations,  my  dear  chap.  All  my  heart. 
Ship  come  in,  and  ancestral  halls,  and  going  to  be  mar- 
ried too,  all  in  one  fell  swoop.  Know  Miss  Bellairs  a 
little.  Jumped  with  her  in  the  same  skipping  rope  in 
childhood's  happy  hours,  danced  with  her  at  her  first 
ball.  Madly  in  love  with  her.  Never  seen  her  since." 

Wentworth  escaped. 

The  chamber  of  his  soul  had  been  long  in  readiness, 
swept  and  garnished  for  the  restless  spirit  that  had 
returned  to  it — not  alone. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

Est-il  indispensable,  qu'on  s'eleve  a  un  point  d'ou  le 
devoir  n'apparaisse  plus  comme  un  choix  de  nos  sentiments 
les  plus  nobles,  mais  comme  une  silencieuse  necessite  de 
toute  notre  nature. 

THE  following  afternoon  Fay  was  sitting  in  the  little 
morning-room  at  Priesthope,  trying  to  write  a  letter, 
a  long,  long  letter.  Wentworth's  last  note  to  her,  just 
arrived  by  the  second  post,  was  open  before  her,  telling 
her  that  he  could  not  return  for  two  days.  And  then 
the  door  opened  gently  and  he  was  before  her. 

She  turned  a  white,  miserable  face  towards  the  door. 
Then  as  she  suddenly  recognised  him  the  colour  rushed 
to  her  face,  and  she  flew  to  him  with  a  cry  and  locked 
him  in  her  arms,  kissing  his  shoulder,  his  coat,  his 
hands. 

He  was  thunderstruck.  Could  a  few  days'  absence 
so  profoundly  move  these  delicate,  emotional  creatures, 
whom  an  all-wise  Providence  had  made  almost  too  sus- 
ceptible to  masculine  charm !  He  had  never  seen  Fay 
like  this.  But  then,  he  had  never  seen  anything  like 
anything.  She  withdrew  herself  suddenly,  and  stood  a 
little  apart,  her  face  and  neck  one  carnation  of  soft 
shame. 

"  But  you  are  in  London,"  she  said,  her  lip  quiver- 
ing, her  eyes  falling  before  his.  "  I  have  your  own 
word  for  it  that  you  are  still  in  London."  And  she 

310 


PRISONERS  311 

pointed  at  his  letter.  "  I  was  not  expecting  to  see 
you." 

A  joy  so  great  that  it  was  akin  to  pain  laid  its 
awakening  hand  on  him. 

"  I  am  glad  you  were  not  expecting  me,"  he  said,  in 
a  voice  that  he  hardly  recognised  as  his  own.  "  I'm 
thankful." 

And  he  drew  her  back  into  his  arms  more  moved  than 
he  had  ever  been. 

Yes.  He  was  loved.  He  loved  and  was  loved.  He 
had  not  known  the  world  contained  anything  as  great  as 
this.  He  had  always  thought  that  life  at  its  best  was  a 
solitary  thing,  that  passion  was  a  momentary  madness 
with  which  he  did  not  care  to  tamper,  that  celibacy  was 
a  cheap  price  to  pay  for  his  independence.  But  he  and 
this  woman  were  one.  This  was  rest  and  peace  and 
joy  and  freedom.  This  was  what  he  had  always 
wanted,  without  knowing  he  wanted  it.  One  of  the 
many  barriers  between  them  went  down.  He  thought 
it  was  the  only  one. 

They  sat  a  long  time  in  silence,  his  head  against  her 
breast.  Her  face  had  become  pinched  and  sharp,  the 
lovely  colour  had  faded.  All  its  beauty  and  youth  had 
gone  out  of  it.  Her  terrified  eyes  stared  at  the 
wall. 

"  Speak !  Speak  now,"  said  the  inner  voice.  "  You 
were  too  late  last  time.  Speak  now." 

"  I  am  very  miserable,  Fay,"  in  a  whisper  against 
her  cheek. 

Her  arms  tightened  round  him. 

"  Not  so  miserable  now  I  am  with  you,  but " 


312  PRISONERS 

It  seemed  to  Fay  that  she  was  holding  to  her  breast 
the  point  of  the  sword  that  was  to  stab  her  to  death. 

He  raised  his  head,  and  she  saw  that  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes.  Twice  she  had  seen  tears  in  those  narrow 
grey  eyes  before:  once  when  he  had  talked  to  her  of 
Michael  in  prison,  and  once  when  Michael  was  exon- 
erated. 

They  had  drawn  a  little  apart. 

"  When  I  came  here  I  had  not  meant  to  tell  you  any- 
thing about  it,  I  had  decided  not  to,  but — Fay,  I  can't 
believe  it,  I  haven't  slept  all  night,  I  have  known  for  two 
days,  I  only  found  it  out  by  the  merest  accident  that 
that  has  happened  which  I  never  thought  could  hap- 
pen, something  impossible."  Wentworth's  lip  quivered. 
"  Michael  has  deceived  me,  not  by  mistake,  not  just  for 
a  moment,  but  systematically,  purposely — for  years." 

There  was  anger  as  well  as  pain  in  his  voice. 

"  It  was  about  the  murder  of  the  Marchese,"  he  said 
hoarsely,  "  but  I  don't  care  what  it  was  about.  That  is 
not  the  point.  He  has  deceived  me  for  reasons  of  his 
own.  I  don't  know  what  they  were.  And  I  am  afraid, 
my  darling,  he  has  not  stopped  there.  I  am  afraid  he 
has  deceived  you  too.  I  am  afraid  he  hoodwinked  you 
when  he  persuaded  you  to  let  him  hide  in  your  room. 
Why  did  he  hide  if  he  wanted  to  shield  the  Marchesa? 
Don't  you  see  that  there  was  no  sense  in  his  hiding, 
though  I  never  thought  of  it  till — lately?  I  always 
believed  in  him  implicitly,  as  you  have  done.  I  thought 
him  just  the  kind  of  person  who  would  sacrifice  himself 
for  a  woman.  I  can  understand  doing  it.  It  appeals 
to  a  nature  like  mine.  I  was  deeply  hurt  by  his  reserve 
about  it,  since  he  came  home,  but  I  never  thought,  it 


PRISONERS  313 

never  struck  me  for  one  single  second  that  it  concealed 
anything  discreditable." 

"  It  does  not,"  said  Fay  suddenly. 

"  My  dearest,  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  it  does. 
What  was  Michael  doing  in  the  garden  at  that  time  of 
night.  You  forget  that.  I  am  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  think  him  capable  of  anything  disgraceful,  but 
I  can't  resist  the  conclusion  that  he  was  waiting — Oh! 
Fay,  your  ears  ought  not  to  be  polluted  by  such  things 
— was  waiting  about  in  the  garden  because  he  was  at- 
tracted by  someone  in  the  house." 

He  felt  her  hand  quiver  in  his. 

How  womanly  she  was,  how  pure.  How  could  any 
man  have  had  the  heart  to  throw  dust  in  those  inno- 
cent eyes.  He  kissed  the  cold  hand  reverently. 

"  I  hate  to  speak  of  such  a  thing  to  you,  and  it  some- 
how seems  out  of  the  question  when  I  think  of  Michael's 
character.  I  had  brought  him  up  so  carefully.  I  had 
impressed  on  him  my  own  high  code  of  morals  from  the 
first.  And  yet — and  yet — I  am  afraid,  dearest,  that 
Michael  must  have  been  hanging  about  to  have  a  word 
with — don't  start  so,  why  do  you  tremble? — with  your 
maid." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Fay  shook  her  head. 
She  was  unable  to  articulate. 

"  Then  why  was  he  there?  You  must  have  been  very 
much  surprised  and  alarmed  at  his  coming  to  your  room 
so  late.  And  unless  he  had  given  you  some  reason,  you 
would  not  have  tried  to  hide  him.  We  always  come 
back  to  that.  Fay,  why  did  Michael  hide?  " 

Fay  struggled  to  speak.  Her  white  lips  moved,  but 
no  sound  came  forth. 


314  PRISONERS 

"  You  and  the  Duke  tried  to  save  him  from  being  dis- 
covered. We  all  know  that.  The  Duke  told  me  so 
himself." 

Another  silence.     Fay's  face  became  convulsed. 

"  You  are  no  diplomatist,  Fay,  thank  God.  I  see 
very  well,  my  darling,  that  you  know  more  than  you 
will  say.  It  is  plain  to  me  that  in  the  goodness  of  your 
soul  you  are  trying  to  shield  Michael — for  the  second 
time." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  rose  to  go. 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Fay,  almost  inarticulately.  "  It  isn't 
the  second  time.  I  didn't  shield  him  last  time.  I  let 
him  slide.  But  I  will  now  .  -  .  .  I  want  to  tell 
you  ...  I  must  tell  you  .  .  .  Michael  has 
been  here,  he  came  when  you  were  away  in  London. 
And  he  has  begged  me, — Oh,  Wentworth,  he  has  im- 
plored me  to — tell  you  everything." 

Wentworth  became  very  red.     His  face  hardened. 

"  He  has  begged  you  to  tell  me !  He  has  gone  behind 
my  back  and  tried  to  depute  you  to  do  it,  to  plead  his 
cause  for  him.  He  has  not  even  the  courage  to  come 
to  me  himself.  No,  Fay,  I  am  going.  It  is  no  use 
imploring  me  to  stay.  I'm  not  going  to  listen  to  you 
making  excuses  for  him.  I  don't  blame  you,  but  you 
ought  not  to  have  agreed  to  do  it.  Whatever  I  ought 
to  know  I  must  hear  from  Michael  himself.  I  shall 
go  over  and  see  him  to-morrow  morning.  Even  you, 
dearest,  must  not  come  between — Michael  and  me." 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

Aimer  quelqu'un,  c'est  a  la  fois  lui  oter  le  droit,  et  lui 
donner  la  uuissance  de  nous  faire  souffrir. 

THE  following  morning  the  Bishop  and  Michael  were 
sitting  in  the  library  at  Lostford  Palace.  The  Bishop 
was  reading  a  letter,  while  Michael  watched  him,  sunk 
in  an  arm-chair. 

Presently  the  Bishop  thrust  out  his  under  lip,  and 
gave  back  the  letter  to  Michael. 

"  Wentworth  has  dipped  his  pen  in  gall  instead  of 
in  his  inkpot,"  he  said.  "  For  real  quality  and  strength 
give  me  the  venom  of  a  virtuous  person.  The  ordinary 
sinner  can't  compete  with  him.  Evil  doers  are  out  of 
the  running  in  this  world  as  well  as  in  the  next.  I  often 
tell  them  so.  That  is  why  I  took  orders.  What  do 
you  suppose  Wentworth  suspects  when  he  says  Aling- 
ton  has  suggested  a  discreditable  reason  for  your  being 
in  the  di  Collo  Alto  villa  that  night,  and  that  he  is  not 
going  to  allow  you  to  skulk  behind  a  woman  any  longer  ? 
He  will  be  here  directly  to  extort  what  he  is  pleased  to 
call  *  the  truth.'  What  are  you  going  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Michael.  **  That  is  the  worst 
of  me.  I  never  know." 

The  Bishop  frowned  and  rubbed  his  chin. 

"  I  see  one  thing,"  continued  Michael,  "  and  that  is 
that  it's  all  important  that  he  should  not  break  with 
Fay." 

315 


316  PRISONERS 

"  That  will  be  his  first  step — if  he  knows  the  truth." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will,  and  yet — that's  the  pity  of  it, 
she  will  last  longer  than  I  shall,  and  he  does  like  her — 
a  little — which  is  a  great  deal'for  him.  You  don't  be- 
lieve it,  but  he  really  does.  And  he'll  want  her  more 
than  ever — when  I'm  gone." 

The  Bishop  looked  keenly  at  his  godson. 

Michael  had  never  before  alluded  to  his  precarious 
hold  on  life.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was  only  consider- 
ing it  now  in  its  bearings  on  Wentworth's  future. 

"  Can  a  man  who  has  grown  grey  looking  at  himself 
in  the  glass,  and  recording  his  own  microscopic  expe- 
riences in  a  diary,  can  such  a  man  forgive?  "  said  the 
Bishop.  "  Forgiveness  is  tough  work.  It  needs  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature.  It  needs  humility.  I  forgave 
somebody  once  long  ago.  And  it  nearly  was  the  death 
of  me.  I've  never  been  the  same  man  since." 

"  Wentworth  will  have  his  chance,"  said  Michael. 
"  It's  about  all  we  can  do  for  him." 

"  We  all  know  he  says  he  can,  but  then  he  says  such  a 
lot  of  things.  He  dares  to  say  he  loves  his  fellow  men. 
But  I've  never  yet  found  that  assertion  coincide  with 
any  real  working  regard  for  them.  There  are  certain 
things  which  those  who  care  for  others  never  say,  and 
that  is  one  of  them.  The  egoist  on  the  contrary  is 
always  asserting  of  himself  what  he  ought  in  common 
decency  to  leave  others  to  say  of  him, — only  they  never 
do.  Wentworth  actually  told  me  not  so  long  ago  that 
he  was  intent  on  the  service  of  others.  I  told  him  it 
was  for  those  others  to  mention  that  interesting  fact, 
and  that  nobody  had  lied  about  him  to  that  extent  so 
far  in  my  diocese." 


PRISONERS  31T 

"  He  always  says  that  there  is  perfect  confidence 
between  us,"  said  Michael.  "  I've  heard  him  say  so 
ever  since  I  can  remember,  and  I've  heard  him  tell  peo- 
ple that  I  always  brought  him  my  boyish  troubles.  But 
I  never  did,  even  as  a  boy,  even  when  I  got  into  a  scrape 
at  Eton.  My  tutor  stood  by  me  in  that.  Wentworth 
never  could  endure  him.  He  said  he  was  such  a  snob. 
But  snob  or  not,  he  was  a  firm  friend  to  me.  And  I 
never  told  him  even  at  the  first  of  my  love  for  Fay. 
I  somehow  could  not.  You  simply  can't  tell  Wentworth 
things.  But  he  has  got  it  into  his  head  that  I  al- 
ways have,  and  that  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  kept 
anything  from  him.  If  I  had  only  Fay's  leave  to  tell 
him !  It  is  the  only  thing  to  do." 

The  door  opened,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  both 
men,  Fay  and  Magdalen  came  in.  Fay  looked  as  ex- 
hausted, as  hopeless,  as  she  had  done  three  months  ago 
when  Magdalen  had  brought  her  to  make  her  confession 
to  the  Bishop  in  this  very  room. 

She  evidently  remembered  it.  She  turned  her  lustre- 
less eyes  on  him  and  said,  "  Magdalen  did  not  make  me 
come  this  time.  I  have  come  myself.  Do  you  think, 
is  there  any  chance,  Uncle  John,  that  God  will  have 
mercy  on  me  again,  like  He  did  before?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  by  God  having  mercy,  that  Went- 
worth will  still  marry  you  if  he  knows  the  truth?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  That  was  of  course  what  she 
meant. 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  her  three  friends 
with  a  mute  imploring  gaze.  Their  eyes  fell  before 
hers. 

"  I  have  not  slept  all  night,"  she  said  to  the  Bishop. 


318  PRISONERS 

"  Magdalen  stayed  with  me.  And  we  came  quite  early 
because  I  had  to  come.  Wentworth  must  be  told.  It 
isn't  because  Magdalen  says  so.  She  hasn't  said  so, 
though  I  know  she  felt  he  ought  to  be  told  from  the 
first.  And  it  isn't  because  he's  sure  to  find  out.  And 
oh!  Michael,  it  isn't  for  your  sake,  to  put  you  right 
with  him.  It  ought  to  be,  but  it  isn't.  But  I  can't  let 
him  kiss  me  any  more,  and  not  say.  It  makes  a  kind 
of  pain  I  can't  bear.  It  has  been  getting  worse  and 
worse  ever  since  Michael  came  back,  only  I  did  not 

know   what   it  was    at   first,    and   yesterday "    she 

stopped  short,  shuddering.  "  He  came  to  see  me  yes- 
terday," she  said  in  a  strangled  voice.  "  He  was  so 
dear  and  good,  so  wonderful.  There  never  was  any- 
one like  him.  It  is  in  my  heart  that  he  will  forgive  me. 
And  he  trusts  me  entirely.  I  can't  deceive  him  any 
more." 

The  eyes  of  Michael  and  Magdalen  met  in  a  kind  of 
shame.  Those  two  who  had  loved  her  as  no  one  else 
had  loved  her,  who  had  understood  her  as  no  one  else  had 
understood  her,  saw  that  they  had  misjudged  her. 
They  had  judged  her  by  her  actions,  identified  her 
with  them.  And  all  the  time  the  little  trembling  "  pil- 
grim soul  "  in  her  was  shrinking  from  the  pain  of  those 
very  actions,  was  growing  imperceptibly  apart  from 
them,  was  beginning  to  regard  them  with  horror,  not 
because  they  had  caused  suffering  to  others,  but  because 
they  had  ended  by  inflicting  anguish  upon  herself. 
The  red-hot  iron  of  our  selfishness  with  which  we  brand 
others  becomes  in  time  hot  at  both  ends.  We  don't 
know  at  first  what  it  is  that  is  hurting  us,  why  it  burns 
us.  But  our  blistered  hands,  cling  as  they  will,  must 


PRISONERS  319 

needs  drop  it  at  last.  Fay's  cruel  little  white  hand  had 
let  go. 

Michael  took  it  in  his  and  kissed  it. 

"  Wentworth  is  coming  here  this  morning,"  said  the 
Bishop  gently.  "  He  may  arrive  at  any  moment.  Stay 
here  and  speak  to  him.  And  ask  him  to  forgive  you, 
Fay.  You  need  his  forgiveness." 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  him,"  gasped  Fay.  "  I 
tried  yesterday,  and  I  couldn't." 

"  Let  me  tell  him,"  said  Michael,  arid  as  he  spoke,  the 
door  opened  once  more,  and  Wentworth  was  announced. 

He  had  got  ready  what  he  meant  to  say.  The  ven- 
omous sentences  which  he  had  concocted  during  a  sleep- 
less night  were  all  in  order  in  his  mind. 

Who  shall  say  what  grovelling  suspicions,  what  sor- 
did conjectures,  had  blocked  his  inflamed  mind  as  he 
drove  swiftly  across  the  downs  in  the  still  June  morn- 
ing? He  meant  to  extort  an  explanation  from  his 
brother,  to  have  the  whole  subject  out  with  him  once  for 
all.  He  should  not  be  suffered  to  make  Fay  his  accom- 
plice for  another  hour.  His  tepid  spirit  burned  within 
him  when  he  thought  of  Michael's  behaviour  to  Fay. 
He  said  to  himself  that  he  could  forgive  that  least  of  all. 

He  had  expected  to  find  Michael  alone,  or  possibly 
the  Bishop  only  with  him,  the  Bishop  who  knew.  He 
was  disconcerted  at  finding  Fay  and  Magdalen  there 
before  him. 

A  horrible  suspicion  that  Magdalen  also  knew  darted 
across  his  mind. 

It  was  obvious  to  him  that  he  had  broken  up  a  con- 
ference, a  conspiracy.  His  bitter  face  darkened  still 
more. 


320  PRISONERS 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  all  plotting  about  so 
early  in  the  morning,"  he  said.  "  I  must  apologise 
for  interrupting  you.  I  seem  to  be  always  in  the  way 
now-a-days.  People  are  always  whispering  behind  my 
back.  But  I  have  come  over  to  see  Michael.  I  want 
a  few  plain  words  with  him  without  delay,  and  I  intend 
to  have  them." 

"  That  is  well,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  because  you  are 
about  to  have  them.  We  were  speaking  of  you  when 
you  came  in." 

"  I  wish  to  see  Michael  alone,"  said  Wentworth, 
stung  by  the  Bishop's  instant  admission  of  being  in  his 
brother's  confidence. 

He  looked  only  at  Michael,  who,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  was  leaning  white  as  death  against  the  man- 
telpiece. 

"  Do  you  wish  us  to  go,  Michael?  "  said  the  Bishop. 

"  I  wish  you  all  to  stay,"  he  said,  raising  his  eyes 
for  a  moment.  His  hand  shook  so  violently  that  he 
knocked  over  a  little  ornament  on  the  mantelpiece,  and 
it  fell  with  a  crash  into  the  fireplace.  His  voice  shook, 
too,  but  his  eyes  were  steady.  His  great  physical  weak- 
ness, poignantly  apparent  though  it  was,  seemed  a 
thing  apart  from  him,  like  a  cloak  which  he  might  dis- 
card at  any  moment. 

"  I  cannot  say  all  I  have  to  say  before  others,"  said 
Wentworth  fiercely,  "  even  if  they  are  all  his  confed- 
erates in  trying  to  keep  me  in  the  dark,  all,  that  is,  ex- 
cept Fay.  We  know  by  experience  that  she  can  shield 
a  man  who  has  something  to  hide  even  from  his  best 
friends.  We  know  by  experience  that  dust  can  be 
thrown  in  her  unsuspecting  eyes." 


PRISONERS  321 

"  You  have  been  kept  in  the  dark,"  said  the  Bishop 
with  compassion ;  "  you  have  not  been  fairly  treated, 
Wentworth,  you  have  much  to  forgive." 

In  spite  of  himself  Wentworth  was  awed.  He  had 
a  sudden  sense  of  impending  calamity.  He  looked 
again  at  Michael. 

Michael's  hand  shook.  His  whole  body  shook.  His 
lips  trembled  impotently. 

Wentworth  sickened  with  shame.  His  love  was 
wounded  to  the  very  depths  to  see  his  brother  like  this, 
as  it  had  never  been  wounded  even  by  the  first  sight  of 
him  in  his  convict's  blouse. 

"  I  always  trusted  you,"  he  said  with  a  groan,  putting 
up  his  hand  so  as  to  shut  out  that  tottering  figure.  "  I 
don't  know  what  miserable  secret  you're  keeping  from 
me,  and  I  don't  care.  It  isn't  t hat  I  mind.  It  is  that — • 
whatever  it  was,  however  disgraceful  it  was,  you  should 
have  kept  it  from  me.  God  knows  I  only  wanted  to  help 
you.  Surely,  surely,  Michael,  you  might  have  trusted 
me.  What  have  I  done  that  you  should  treat  me  as 
if  I  were  an  enemy?  I  thought  I  was  your  friend." 

No  one  spoke. 

"  After  all,  I  don't  know  that  I  care  to  hear.  Why 
should  I  care.  It's  rather  late  in  the  day  to  hear  now 
what  everyone  knows  except  me,  what  I've  been  breaking 
my  heart  over,  racking  my  brains  over  as  you  well 
know  for  these  two  endless  years,  what  you  aren't  even 
now  telling  me  of  your  own  accord,  what  you  have  been 
persuaded  to  by  this — this  " — Wentworth  looked  at 
the  Bishop — "  this  outsider,  this  middle  man." 

A  great  jealousy  and  bitterness  were  compressed  into 
the  words  "  middle  man." 


322  PRISONERS 

"  You  have  got  to  hear,"  said  Michael,  and  the 
trembling  left  him. 

He  turned  towards  his  brother,  still  supporting  him- 
self with  one  hand  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  two  stern 
faces  confronted  each  other,  and  Magdalen  for  the 
first  time  saw  a  likeness  between  them. 

"  I  have  kept  things  from  you.  You  are  right 
there,"  said  Michael,  speaking  in  a  low,  difficult  voice. 
"  But  I  never  intentionally  deceived  you  till  the  Mar- 
chese  was  murdered.  Long  before  that,  four  years 
before  that,  I  fell  in  love." 

Wentworth's  heart  contracted.  He  had  always 
feared  that  moment  for  Michael,  had  always  awaited  it 
with  a  little  store  of  remedial  maxims.  He  had  felt 
confident  that  Michael  had  never  even  been  slightly  at- 
tracted by  any  woman.  How  often  he  had  said  to  him- 
^elf  that  if  there  had  been  any  attraction  he  should 
have  been  the  first  to  know  of  it.  Yet  the  incredible 
truth  was  being  thrust  at  him  that  Michael  had  strug- 
gled through  his  first  love  without  drawing  upon  the 
deep  wells  of  Wentworth's  knowledge. 

"  The  woman  I  fell  in  love  with  was  Fay.  She  was 
seventeen.  I  was  nineteen." 

The  room  went  round  with  Wentworth. 

"  Fay,"  he  said,  in  blank  astonishment,  "  Fay !  " 
Then  a  glare  of  light  broke  in  on  him. 

"  Then  it  was  she,"  he  stammered,  "  not  her  maid,  as 
that  brute  Alington  said — it  was  she — she  herself 
that " 

"  It  was  her  I  went  to  see  the  night  I  was  arrested. 
I  was  deeply  in  love  with  her." 

Michael  paused  a  moment,  and  then   added  gently, 


PRISONERS  323 

"  She  never  cared  for  me.  I  did  not  see  that  clearly  at 
the  time,  because  I  was  blinded  by  my  own  passion.  I 
have  seen  it  since." 

Wentworth  made  no  movement. 

"  I  decided  to  leave  Rome.  Fay  wrote  to  me  that  I 
ought  to  go.  I  went  to  say  good-bye  to  her  in  the 
garden  the  night  the  Marchese  was  murdered.  While 
I  was  in  the  garden,  the  murder  was  discovered  and  the 
place  was  surrounded,  and  I  could  not  get  away.  I 
hid  in  Fay's  boudoir.  The  Duke  came  in  and  explained 
to  Fay  what  had  happened.  It  was  the  first  I  knew  of 
it.  Then,  when  they  searched  the  house  and  I  saw 
that  I  must  be  discovered  in  another  moment,  I  came 
out  and  gave  myself  up  as  the  murderer,  because  I 
could  not  be  found  hiding  in  Fay's  rooms  at  night. 
It  was  the  only  thing  to  do." 

Fay  took  a  long  breath.  What  a  simple  explanation 
it  seemed  after  all.  Why  had  she  been  so  terrified? 
Wentworth  could  not  blame  her  seriously  now. 

"  I  never  tried  to  shield  the  Marchesa,"  Michael  went 
on.  "  That  was  her  own  idea.  I  only  wanted  to  shield 
Fay  from  being — misconstrued.  The  Duke  under- 
stood. He  saw  me  hiding  behind  the  screen,  and  tried 
to  save  me.  He  told  me  so  next  day.  The  Duke  was 
good  to  me  from  first  to  last." 

Wentworth  turned  a  fierce,  livid  face  towards  his 
brother. 

"  Have  I  really  got  at  the  truth  at  last?  "  he  said. 
"  How  can  I  tell  ?  The  Duke  could  have  told  me,  but 
he  is  dead.  Did  he  really  connive  at  your  romantic 
passion  for  his  wife?  If  I  may  venture  to  offer  an 
opinion,  that  part  of  the  story  is  not  quite  so  well 


324  PRISONERS 

thought  out  as  the  rest,  though  it  is  excessively  modern. 
Anyhow  he  is  dead.  You  tell  me  he  saw  you  behind  the 
screen  in  his  wife's  rooms  at  midnight,  and  felt  no 
need  of  an  explanation.  How  like  an  Italian.  But  he 
is  dead.  And  you  forced  your  love  on  another  man's 
wife,  though  you  own  she  did  not  return  it,  wormed 
yourself  into  her  rooms  at  night,  and  then — then — yes, 
I  begin  to  see  a  grain  of  truth  among  these  heaps  of 
lies — then  when  by  an  evil  chance,  an  extraordinary 
stroke  of  bad  luck,  there  was  danger  of  your  being 
discovered,  then  you  persuaded  her,  the  innocent,  inex- 
perienced creature  whom  you  would  have  wronged  if 
you  could — you  worked  upon  her  feelings,  you  made 
her  into  your  accomplice,  you  persuaded  her  to  hide 
you  .  .  .  You  mean  cur !  You  only 

sneaked  out  of  your  hole  when  escape  was  absolutely 
impossible.  And  so  the  truth,  or  some  garbled  part 
of  it,  is  choked  out  of  you  at  last.  No  wonder  you  were 
silent  all  these  years.  No  wonder  you  would  not 
speak.  No  wonder  you  let  your  poor  dupe  of  a  brother 
break  his  heart  over  your  silence.  Credulous  fool  that 
I  have  been  from  first  to  last.  So  help  me  God,  I  will 
never  speak  to  you  again." 

The  violent,  stammering  voice  ceased  at  last. 

Fay  shivered  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  at  her 
lover. 

Both  men  had  forgotten  her.  Their  eyes  never  left 
each  other.  Wentworth's  fierce  face  was  turned  with 
deadly  hatred  upon  his  brother.  Michael  met  his  eye, 
but  he  did  not  speak. 

There  was  death  in  the  air. 

Suddenly  as  in  a  glass   she   saw  that  Michael  was 


PRISONERS  325 

saving  her  again,  was  sacrificing  himself  for  a  second 
time  at  enormous  cost,  the  cost  of  his  brother's  love. 

"  Michael !  "  said  Fay  with  a  sob,  "  Michael,  I  can't 
bear  it.  You  are  trying  to  save  me  again,  but  I  can't 
bear  to  be  saved  any  more.  I  have  had  enough  of  being 
saved.  I  won't  be  saved.  It  hurts  too  much.  I  won't 
let  you  do  it  a  second  time.  I  have  had  enough  of  being 
silent  when  I  ought  to  speak,  I  have  had  enough  of 
hiding  things,  and  pretending,  and  being  frightened." 

Fay  saw  at  last  that  the  truth  was  her  only  refuge 
from  that  unendurable  horror  which  was  getting  up 
out  of  its  grave  again.  She  fled  to  it  for  very  life, 
and  flung  herself  upon  it. 

She  took  Michael's  hand,  and  turning  to  Wentworth 
began  to  speak  rapidly,  with  a  clearness  and  directness 
which  amazed  Magdalen  and  the  Bishop. 

It  all  came  out,  the  naked  truth ;  her  loveless  mar- 
riage, the  great  kindness  of  her  husband  towards  her, 
her  determination  bred  of  idleness  and  vanity  to  enslave 
Michael  anew  when  he  came  to  Rome,  his  resistance, 
his  decision  to  leave  Italy,  her  inveigling  him  under  plea 
of  urgency  to  come  to  the  garden  at  night,  his  refusal 
to  enter  the  house,  her  frantic  desire  to  keep  him,  his 
determination  to  part  from  her. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  those  who  listened 
in  awed  silence  that  here  was  the  whole  truth  at  last. 

Fay  looked  full  at  Wentworth  and  then  said :  "  He 
asked  me  why  I  had  sent  for  him,  what  it  was  that  he 
could  do  for  me.  And  I  said — I  said — '  Take  me  with 
you.' " 

"  No,"  said  Michael,  wincing  as  under  a  lash,  "  No, 
you  did  not.  Fay,  you  never  said  that." 


32G  PRISONERS 

"  You  did  not  hear  it,  but  I  said  it." 

Michael  staggered  against  the  mantelpiece. 

Wentworth  had  not  moved.  His  face  had  become 
frightful,  distorted. 

"  I  am  a  wicked  woman,  Wentworth,"  said  Fay.  "  I 
tried  to  make  him  in  love  with  me.  I  tried  to  tempt 
him.  I  could  make  him  love  me,  but  not  do  wrong. 
And  then  I  let  him  take  the  blame  when  he  was  trapped. 
I  had  trapped  him  there  first.  He  did  not  want  to 
come.  I  forced  him  to  come.  I  let  him  spoil  his  life 
to  save  my  wretched  good  name.  He  is  right  when  he 
told  you  just  now  that  I  never  loved  him.  The  love 
was  all  on  his  side.  He  gave  it  all.  I  took  it  all,  and 
I  went  on  taking  it.  It  was  I  who  kept  him  in  prison 
quite  as  much  as  the  Marchesa.  It  was  I  who  let  him 
burn  and  freeze  in  his  cell.  A  word  from  me  would 
have  got  him  out." 

Wentworth  laughed  suddenly,  a  horrible,  discordant 
laugh. 

They  had  rotted  down  before  his  eyes  to  loathsome 
unrecognisable  corpses — the  man  and  the  woman  he 
had  loved. 

Fay  looked  wildly  at  him. 

"  But  you  are  good,"  she  said  faintly.  "  You  won't, 
Wentworth,  you  won't  cast  me  off  like — like  I  did 
Michael." 

He  did  not  look  at  her. 

He  took  up  his  gloves  and  straightened  the  fingers 
as  his  custom  was. 

"  There  is  no  longer  anything  which  need  detain  me 
here,"  he  said  to  the  Bishop,  and  he  moved  towards  the 
door. 


PRISONERS  327 

"  Nothing  except  the  woman  whose  fate  is  in  your 
hands,"  said  the  Bishop  gently.  "  What  of  her?  She 
deserted  Michael  because  her  eyes  were  holden.  Now 
you  can  make  the  balance  even  if  you  will.  But  will 
you?  You  can  repay  cruelty  with  cruelty.  You  can 
desert  her  with  inhumanity  even  greater  than  hers,  be- 
cause you  do  it  with  your  eyes  open.  But  will  you? 
Is  it  to  be  an  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth? 
She  loves  you  and  is  at  your  mercy,  even  as  Michael  was 
once  at  hers.  You  can  crush  her  if  you  will.  But  will 
you?" 

"  Wentworth !  "  said  Fay,  and  she  fell  at  his  feet, 
clasping  his  knees. 

His  face  was  as  flint,  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  and 
tried  to  push  away  her  hands. 

"  Let  him  go,  my  child,"  said  the  Bishop  sternly,  and 
he  took  Fay's  hands,  and  held  them.  "  It  is  no  use 
trying  to  keep  a  man  who  does  not  love  you.  Go, 
Wentworth.  You  are  right.  There  is  nothing  to  keep 
you  here.  In  this  room  there  are  two  people,  one  of 
whom  has  sinned  and  has  repented,  and  both  of  whom 
love  you  and  have  spoken  the  truth  to  you.  But  there 
is  no  love  and  truth  in  you  to  rise  up  and  meet 
theirs.  You  do  not  know  what  love  and  truth  are, 
even  when  you  see  them  very  close.  You  had  better 
go." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Wentworth,  his  eyes  blazing.  And 
he  went  out  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

Fay's  hands  slipped  out  of  the  Bishop's,  her  head  fell 
forward,  and  she  sank  down  on  the  floor.  The  Bishop 
and  Magdalen  bent  over  her. 

Michael  looked  a  moment  at  her,  and  swiftly  left  th2 


328  PRISONERS 

room.  He  overtook  Wentworth  in  the  hall,  groping 
blindly  for  his  hat. 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  Michael,  "  I  want  a  word  with 
you,"  and  he  half  pushed  Wentworth  into  a  room  lead- 
ing out  of  the  hall.  It  was  a  dreary  little  airless 
apartment  with  a  broken  blind,  intended  for  a  waiting- 
room,  but  fallen  into  disuse,  and  only  partially  fur- 
nished, the  corners  piled  with  great  tin  boxes  contain- 
ing episcopal  correspondence. 

Michael  closed  the  door. 

"  Wentworth,"  he  said  breathlessly,  "  you  don't  see. 
You  don't  understand.  Fay  loves  you."  He  looked 
earnestly  at  Wentworth  as  if  the  latter  were  acting  in 
some  woeful  ignorance,  which  one  word  would  set  right. 
He  seemed  entirely  oblivious  of  Wentworth's  insulting 
words  towards  himself. 

"  I  see  one  thing,"  said  Wentworth,  "  and  that  is 
that  I'm  not  inclined  to  marry  your  cast-off  mistress." 

Michael  closed  with  him  instantly,  but  not  before 
Wentworth  had  seen  the  lightning  in  his  eyes ;  and  the 
two  men  struggled  furiously  in  the  dim,  airless  little 
room  with  its  broken  blind. 

Wentworth  knew  Michael  meant  to  kill  him.  The 
long,  scarred  hands  had  him  by  the  throat,  were  twist- 
ing themselves  in  the  silk  tie  Fay  had  knitted  for  him. 
He  tore  himself  out  of  the  grip  of  those  iron  fingers. 
But  Michael  only  sobbed  and  wound  his  arms  round 
him.  And  Wentworth  knew  he  was  trying  to  throw 
him,  and  break  his  back. 

Wentworth  fought  for  his  life,  but  he  was  over- 
matched. The  awful,  murderous  hands  were  feeling 
for  his  neck  again,  the  sobbing  breath  was  on  his  face, 


PRISONERS  329 

the  glaring  eyes  staring  into  his.  The  hands  closed 
on  his  throat  once  more,  squeezing  his  tongue  out  of 
his  mouth,  his  eyes  out  of  his  head.  He  made  a  last 
frightful  struggle  to  wrench  the  hands  away.  But 
they  remained  clutched  into  his  flesh,  choking  his  life 
out  of  him.  There  was  a  thin,  guttural,  sawing  noise 
mixed  in  with  the  sobbing.  Then  all  in  a  moment  the 
sobbing  ceased,  he  felt  the  hands  relax,  and  then  an 
avalanche  of  darkness  crashed  down  on  him,  and  buried 
him  beneath  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

That  game  of  consequences  to  which  we  all  sit  down,  the 
hanger-back  not  least. — R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

DOWN,  very  deep  down.  Buried  in  an  abyss  of  dark- 
ness, shrouded  tightly  in  a  nameless  horror  that  pressed 
on  eyes  and  breath  and  hands  and  limbs. 

At  last  a  faint  sound  reached  Wentworth.  Far  away 
in  some  other  world  a  clock  struck.  His  numbed  facul- 
ties apprehended  the  sound,  and  then  forgot  it  when  it 
ceased. 

At  last  he  felt  himself  stir.  He  found  himself 
staring  at  a  glimmer  of  light.  He  could  not  look  at 
it,  and  he  could  not  look  away  from  it.  What  was  it? 
It  had  something  to  do  with  him.  It  grew  more  dis- 
tinct. It  was  a  window  with  a  broken  blind. 

Someone  close  at  hand  began  to  tremble.  Went- 
worth sat  up  suddenly  and  f^und  it  was  himself.  He 
was  alone,  lying  crumpled  u,  .gainst  the  wall  where  he 
had  been  flung  down.  He  krn_  #  where  he  was.  He  saw 
the  piles  of  tin  boxes.  He  remembered. 

He  leaned  his  leaden  throbbing  head  against  the  wall, 
and  wave  after  wave  of  sickness  even  unto  death  shud- 
dered over  him.  Michael  had  tried  to  kill  him.  His 
stiff  wrenched  throat  throbbed  together  with  his  head. 
For  a  long  time  he  did  not  move. 

At  last  the  clock  struck  again. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had  been  called,  and 
looked  with  intentness  at  a  fallen  book  and  upset 

330 


PRISONERS  331 

inkstand.  There  was  a  quill  pen  balancing  itself  in 
an  absurd  manner  with  its  nib  stuck  in  the  cane  bottom 
of  an  overturned  chair.  He  took  it  out  and  laid  it  on 
the  table.  He  saw  his  hat  in  a  corner,  stooped  for  it, 
missed  it  several  times,  and  then  got  hold  of  it,  and  put 
it  on.  There  was  a  little  glass  over  the  mantelpiece. 
A  ghastly  face  with  a  torn  collar  was  watching  him 
furtively  through  it.  He  turned  fiercely  on  the  spy 
and  found  the  face  was  his  own.  He  turned  up  his 
coat  and  buttoned  it.  Then  he  went  to  the  half -open 
door  and  looked  out. 

His  ear  caught  a  faint  sound.  Otherwise  the  house 
was  very  still. 

A  maid  servant  on  her  knees  with  her  back  to  him  was 
washing  the  white  stone  floor  of  the  hall  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase.  Another  servant,  also  with  her  back 
to  him,  was  watching  her. 

"  Then  it  is  early  morning,"  he  said.  And  he 
walked  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house,  through 
the  wide  open  doors.  A  fine  rain  was  falling,  but  he 
did  not  notice  it.  He  passed  out  through  the  gates 
and  found  himself  in  the  road.  He  stopped  uncon- 
sciously, not  knowing  what  to  do  next. 

A  fly  dawdling  back  to  the  town  from  the  station, 
passed  him,  and  pulled  up,  as  he  hesitated. 

"  Station,  sir?  "  said  the  driver. 

"  No,  Barf  ord,"  said  Wentworth,  and  he  got  in. 
The  fly  with  its  faded  cushions  and  musty  atmosphere 
seemed  a  kind  of  refuge.  He  breathed  more  freely 
when  he  was  enclosed  in  it. 

As  in  the  garden  of  Eden  desolation  often  first  makes 
itself  felt  as  a  realisation  of  nakedness.  We  must  creep 


332  PRISONERS 

away.  We  must  hide.  We  have  no  protection,  no 
covering. 

Wentworth  cowered  in  the  fly.  He  passed  without 
recognising  them  all  the  old  familiar  landmarks,  the 
twisting  white  road  that  branched  off  to  Priesthope, 
the  dew  ponds,  the  half  hidden,  lonely  farms.  He  was 
in  a  strange  country. 

He  looked  with  momentary  curiosity  at  a  weather- 
worn sign  post  which  pointed  forlornly  where  four  roads 
met.  It  was  falling  to  pieces  with  age,  but  yet  it  must 
have  been  put  up  there  since  the  morning.  He  had 
never  seen  it  before.  He  shouted  to  the  driver  that  he 
had  taken  the  wrong  road.  The  man  pointed  with  his 
whip  to  where,  a  mile  away,  the  smoke  of  Barford  rose 
among  its  trees.  The  landscape  suddenly  slid  into 
familiar  lines  again.  He  recognised  it,  and  sank  back, 
confused  and  exhausted.  The  effort  of  speaking  had 
hurt  his  throat  horribly.  Was  he  going  mad?  How 
could  his  throat  hurt  him  like  this — if  it  wasn't — if 
Michael  had  not 

He  thrust  thought  from  him.  He  would  wait  till 
he  got  home,  till  his  own  roof  was  safely  over  him,  the 
familiar  walls  round  him. 

This  was  his  gate.  Here  was  his  own  door,  with  his 
butler  looking  somewhat  surprised,  standing  on  the 
steps. 

He  found  himself  getting  out,  and  giving  orders. 
He  listened  to  himself  telling  the  servant  to  pay  the 
fly  and  to  send  word  by  it  to  his  dog-cart  to  return 
home.  Of  course  he  had  gone  to  Lostford  in  the  dog- 
cart. He  had  forgotten  that. 

Then  he  heard  his  own  voice  ordering  a  whiskey  and 


PRISONERS  333 

soda  to  be  brought  to  him  in  the  library.  And  he 
walked  there. 

The  afternoon  post  had  arrived  with  the  newspapers 
and  he  took  up  a  paper.  But  it  was  printed  in  some 
language  unknown  to  him,  though  he  recognised  some 
of  the  letters. 

How  long  had  he  been  gone,  an  hour,  a  day,  a  year? 

He  looked  at  the  clock. 

Half-past  two.  But  this  great  shock  with  which  the 
air  was  still  rocking  might  have  stopped  it.  He  put 
his  ear  to  it.  Strange!  It  was  going.  And  it  al- 
ways stopped  so  easily,  even  if  the  housemaid  dusted  it. 

Was  it  half-past  two  in  the  afternoon  or  in  the 
night  ? 

There  was  a  band  of  sunshine  across  the  floor  and 
outside  the  gardens  and  the  downs  were  steeped  in  it. 

Perhaps  it  was  day. 

The  butler  brought  in  a  tray,  and  placed  it  near  him. 

"  Have  you  had  luncheon,  sir  ?  " 

Wentworth  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said  "  yes." 

"And  will  Mr.  Michael  return  to-day,  sir?" 

Wentworth  remembered  some  old,  old  prehistoric  ar- 
rangement by  which  Michael  was  to  have  come  back 
with  him  to  Barford  this  afternoon. 

"  No,"  he  said,  the  room  suddenly  darkening  till  the 
sunshine  on  the  floor  was  barely  visible.  "  No.  He  is 
not  coming  back." 

The  man  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

Wentworth  groped  for  the  flagon  of  whiskey, 
poured  out  a  quantity,  and  drank  it  raw.  Then  he 
waited  for  the  nightmare  to  lift. 


334  PRISONERS 

His  mind  cleared  gradually.  His  scattered  faculties 
came  sneaking  back  like  defeated  soldiers  to  camp.  But 
they  had  all  one  tale  of  disaster  and  one  only  to  tell. 
He  must  needs  believe  them. 

Michael  had  tried  to  kill  him.  Whatever  else  shifted 
that  remained  true. 

Wentworth  bowed  his  stiffening  head  upon  his  hands, 
and  the  sweat  ran  down  his  face. 

Michael  had  tried  to  kill  him,  and  had  all  but  suc- 
ceeded. Oh!  if  only  he  had  quite  succeeded.  If  only 
his  life  had  not  come  back  to  him!  He  had  died  and 
died  hard  in  that  little  room.  And  yet  here  he  was  still 
alive  and  in  agony. 

Michael  first.  That  thought  was  torture.  Then 
Fay.  That  thought  was  torture.  The  woman  he  had 
so  worshipped,  on  whom  he  had  lavished  a  wealth  of  love, 
far  greater  than  most  men  have  it  in  them  to  bestow, 
had  deceived  him,  had  been  willing  to  be  his  brother's 
mistress. 

Why  had  he  ever  believed  in  Fay  and  Michael?  Had 
he  not  tacitly  distrusted  men  and  women  always  from 
his  youth  up?  Had  he  not  gauged  life  and  love  and 
friendship  at  their  true  value  years  ago?  Why  had  he 
made  an  exception  of  this  particular  man  and  woman? 
They  were  no  worse  than  the  rest. 

What  was  any  man  or  woman  worth?  They  were  all 
false  to  the  core.  What  was  Fay?  A  pretty  piece  of 
pink  and  white,  a  sensual  lure  like  other  women, 
not  better  and  not  worse.  And  what  was  Michael  but 
a  man  like  other  men,  ready  to  forget  honour,  morality, 
everything,  if  once  his  passions  were  aroused.  It  was 
an  old  story,  as  old  as  the  hills,  that  men  and  womem 


PRISONERS 

betray  each  other.  It  was  as  old  as  the  psalms  of 
David. 

Pah!  what  a  fool  he  was  to  allow  his  heart  to  be 
wrung  by  what  was  only  the  ordinary  vulgar  experi- 
ence of  those  who  were  so  silly  as  to  mix  themselves  up 
with  their  fellow  creatures. 

He  had  only  himself  to  thank. 

Well,  at  any  rate,  he  was  free  now.  He  was  awake 
now.  He  was  not  going  to  put  his  hand  in  the  fire  a 
second  time. 

He  was  going  abroad  immediately.  He  would  start 
to-morrow  morning.  In  the  meanwhile,  he  would  go  and 
see  somebody,  call  somewhere,  be  in  high  spirits  some- 
where with  others.  They  (they  were  Fay  and  Michael) 
would  hear  of  that  afterwards,  would  see  how  little  he 
cared. 

He  seized  up  his  hat  and  went  out.  But  when  he  had 
walked  a  few  hundred  yards  he  sank  down  exhausted 
on  a  wooden  seat  in  the  alder  coppice  overhanging  the 
house,  and  remained  there.  The  baby  pheasants  crept 
in  and  out,  all  round  him.  Their  little  houses,  each  with 
an  anxious  step-mother  in  it,  were  set  at  regular  inter- 
vals along  the  grassy  path.  Only  yesterday  he  had 
walked  along  that  path  with  the  keeper,  and  had 
thought  that  in  the  autumn  he  and  Michael  would  be 
shooting  together  once  more. 

They  would  never  shoot  together  again. 

As  the  dusk  fell  he  heard  a  sound  of  wheels.  His 
dog-cart  returning  from  Lostford,  no  doubt.  It  did 
not  turn  into  the  court-yard,  but  came  on  up  to  the 
house.  Wentworth  peered  down  through  the  leaves. 


336  PRISONERS 

It  was  the  Bishop's  dog-cart.  He  recognised  the 
groom  who  drove  it.  To  his  amazement  he  saw  Lord 
Lossiemouth  get  out.  After  some  parley  he  went  into 
the  house. 

Why  should  he  have  come? 

Oh !  of  course,  how  dense  he  was.  He  had  been  sent 
over  on  an  embassy  by  Magdalen  and  the  Bishop.  They 
wanted  to  hush  up  the  fight,  and  bring  about  a  recon- 
ciliation between  him  and  Fay.  He  should  be  told  Fay 
was  making  herself  ill  with  crying.  His  magnanimity 
would  be  appealed  to  by  that  pompous  prig.  Well, 
he  had  had  his  journey  for  nothing.  Wentworth  saw 
his  servants  looking  for  him,  and  hid  himself  in  the 
coppice. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  he  left  the  wood,  and  went 
down  the  steep  path  to  the  gardens.  It  was  nearly 
dark  now.  Lights  twinkled  in  the  house.  The  lamp 
in  the  library  laid  a  pale  finger  of  light  upon  the  lawn, 
through  the  open  glass  doors. 

Wentworth  went  up  to  it,  and  then  as  he  was  about 
to  enter,  shrank  back  astonished. 

Lord  Lossiemouth  was  sitting  there  with  his  back  to 
the  window.  Wentworth  stood  a  long  time  looking  at 
him.  He  was  evidently  waiting  for  him  to  come  in. 
He  sat  stolidly  on  as  if  he  were  glued  to  his  chair, 
smoking  one  cigarette  after  another. 

At  last  he  got  up.  Surely  he  would  go  now.  He 
walked  to  the  bookshelves  that  lined  the  walls,  inspected 
the  books,  selected  one,  and  settled  himself  with  a  volu- 
minous sigh  in  his  arm-chair  once  more. 

Wentworth  stole  away  across  the  grass  as  noiselessly 
as  he  had  come,  and  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

Age  by  age, 

The  clay  wars  with  His  fingers  and  pleads  hard 
For  its  old,  heavy,  dull,  and  shapeless  ease. 

— W.  B.  YEATS. 

WENTWORTH  never  knew  how  he  spent  the  night,  if 
indeed  that  interminable  tract  in  which  time  stopped 
could  have  been  one  night.  It  was  longer  than  all  the 
rest  of  his  life  put  together.  In  later  years,  in  peace- 
ful later  years,  confused  memories  came  to  him  of 
things  that  he  must  have  seen  then,  but  of  which  he  took 
no  heed  at  the  time ;  of  seeing  the  breath  of  animals  like 
steam  close  to  the  ground;  of  stumbling  suddenly 
under  a  hedgerow  on  a  huddled,  sleeping  figure  with  a 
white  face,  which  struggled  up  unclean  in  the  clean 
moonlight,  and  menaced  him  in  a  foul  atmosphere  of 
rags. 

And  once,  many  years  later,  when  he  was  taking  an; 
unfamiliar  short  cut  across  the  downs,  he  came  upon 
a  little  pool  in  an  old  chalk  pit,  and  recognised  it.  He 
had  never  seen  it  by  day,  but  he  knew  it.  He  had  wan- 
dered to  it  on  a  night  of  moon  and  mist,  and  had  seen  a 
fox  bring  down  her  cubs  to  drink  just  where  that 
twisted  alder  branch  made  an  arch  over  the  water. 

Wentworth  sat  by  that  chalk  pit  on  the  down  utterly 
spent  in  body  and  mind  hour  after  hour,  till  the  moon 
which  had  been  tangled  in  the  alder  stooped  to  the 

337 


338  PRISONERS 

violet  west  with  one  great  star  to  bear  her  company. 
Who  shall  say  through  what  interminable  labyrinths, 
through  what  sloughs,  across  what  deserts,  his  tortured 
mind  had  dragged  itself  all  night?  The  sun  had  gone 
down  upon  his  wrath.  The  moon  had  gone  down  upon 
his  wrath. 

The  land  was  grey.  The  spectral  horses  moving 
slowly  in  the  misty  fields  were  grey.  A  streak  of  palest 
saffron  light  showed  where  the  dim  earth  and  dim  sky 
met. 

A  remembrance  came  to  him  of  a  summer  dawn  such 
as  this,  years  and  years  ago,  when  Michael  had  been 
dangerously  ill,  and  how  his  whole  soul  had  spent  itself 
in  one  passionate  supplication  that  he  might  not  be 
taken  from  him. 

A  tender  green  transparent  as  the  light  seen  through 
a  leaf  in  May  was  welling  up  the  sky.  Two  tiny  clouds 
floated  in  it  like  rafts  of  rose  colour  upon  a  sea  of 
glass. 

•  .  •**  '.•'. 

A  deep  and  bitter  sense  of  injustice  was  growing 
within  him  with  the  growing  light. 

A  hundred  times  during  the  night  he  had  recalled  in 
cold  anger  every  word  of  that  final  scene  in  the  library, 
his  own  speech,  his  own  actions,  his  great  wrongs, 
his  unendurable  pain. 

And  yet  again  it  returned  upon  him,  always  with 
Fay's  convulsed  face,  and  clinging  hands,  always  with 
the  Bishop's  scathing  words  of  dismissal.  Their  hor- 
rible injustice  rankled  in  his  mind,  their  abominable 
cruelty  to  himself  revolted  him.  Hideous  crimes  had 


PRISONERS  339 

been  committed  against  him,  but  he  had  done  no  evil, 
unless  to  love  and  to  trust  were  evil.  Why  then  was  he 
to  be  thus  thrust  into  the  wrong,  thus  condemned  un- 
heard, cast  forth  with  scorn  because  he  had  not  obedi- 
ently fallen  in  with  the  Bishop's  preposterous  demand 
on  him  to  condone  everything?  It  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected of  him. 

Suddenly  the  faces  of  the  others  watching  him  after 
Fay's  confesson  rose  before  him,  the  Bishop's,  Magda- 
len's, Michael's.  He  saw  that  they  had  not  expected 
it  of  him  either — not  even  Michael.  Only  in  Fay's  up- 
raised eyes  as  she  held  him  by  the  knees  had  there 
been  one  instant's  anguished  hope.  Only  in  hers.  And 
that  had  been  quickly  extinguished.  He  had  extin- 
guished it  himself. 

The  little  clouds  turned  to  trembling  flame.  The 
whole  .sky  flushed  and  then  paled.  A  thread  of  fire 
showed  upon  the  horizon.  It  widened.  It  drew  into  an 
arch.  The  sun  rose  swiftly,  a  sudden  ball  of  living 
fire ;  and  in  a  moment  the  smallest  shrub  upon  the  down, 
the  grazing  horses,  the  huddled  sheep,  were  casting 
gigantic  shadows  across  the  whole  world. 

A  faint  sound  of  wheels  was  growing  clearer  and 
nearer. 

Wentworth  saw  a  dog-cart  coming  towards  him 
along  the  great  white  road.  As  he  looked  it  pulled  up 
and  then  stopped.  A  man  got  out  and  came  towards 
him.  The  raw  sunlight  caught  only  his  face  and  shoul- 
ders. He  seemed  to  wade  towards  him  waist  deep 
through  a  grey  sea. 

Lord  Lossiemouth  again! 


340  PRISONERS 

Lord  Lossiemouth's  heavy  tired  face  showed  sharp 
and  white  in  the  garish  light. 

"  I  have  been  looking  everywhere  for  you,"  he  said, 
not  ungently.  "  I  waited  half  the  night  at  Barford, 
and  then  went  on  to  Saundersfoot  station,  and  then  to 
Wrigley.  Your  servants  thought  you  might  possibly 
have  gone  there.  But  you  had  not  been  seen  there. 
Magdalen  sent  me  to  tell  you  you  must  go  back  to  the 
Palace.  Your  brother  is  very  ill.  He  had  an  attack 
of  haemorrhage  apparently  just  after  you  and  he  parted 
in  the  hall.  I  promised  her  not  to  go  back  without  you. 
Shall  we  drive  on?  " 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

Alles  vergangliche  ist  nur  ein  Gleichniss. — GOETHE. 

MICHAEL,  was  dying.  All  night  Magdalen  and  the 
Bishop,  with  nurse  and  doctor,  fought  for  his  life, 
vainly  strove  to  stem  the  stream  of  blood  with  which 
his  life  was  ebbing  away. 

He  had  been  found  by  Lord  Lossiemouth  and  a  serv- 
ant lying  unconscious  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  in  the 
hall.  He  had  been  carried  into  a  room  on  the  ground 
floor.  Everything  had  been  done,  but  without  avail. 
Michael  was  dying,  suffocating  in  anguish,  threshing 
his  life  out  through  the  awful  hours,  in  wild  delirium. 

He  was  in  prison  once  more,  beating  against  the  bars 
of  his  narrow  window  looking  out  over  the  lagoon. 
His  hoarse  strangled  voice  spoke  unceasingly.  His 
hands  plucked  at  his  wrists,  and  then  dropped  ex- 
hausted beneath  the  weight  of  the  chains  which  dragged 
him  down. 

Magdalen  would  fain  have  spared  Fay  the  ordeal  of 
that  vigil.  But  the  Bishop  was  inexorable.  He  bade 
her  remain.  And  shrunk  away  in  a  corner,  shivering 
to  her  very  soul,  Fay  listened  hour  by  hour  to  the  wild 
feeble  voice  of  her  victim,  back  once  more  in  the  cell 
where  he  had  been  so  silent,  where  the  walls  had  kept 
his  counsel  so  well.  She  saw  something — at  last — of 
what  he  had  endured  for  her,  of  what  he  had  made  so 
fight 

341 


342  PRISONERS 

At  last  the  paroxysm  passed.  Michael  pushed  back 
the  walls  with  his  hands,  and  then  suddenly  gave  up  the 
struggle. 

"  They  are  closing  in  on  me,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot 
keep  them  back  any  longer." 

The  contest  ceased  all  in  a  moment.  He  lay  back 
motionless  with  half -closed  eyes,  his  face  blue  against 
the  white  pillows.  The  blood  had  ceased  at  last  to  flow 
from  his  colourless  lips.  Death  was  very  near. 

He  knew  no  one.  Not  the  Bishop,  not  Magdalen 
who  kept  watch  beside  him,  listening  ever  for  Went- 
worth's  step  outside. 

In  the  dawn  Michael's  spirit  made  as  if  to  depart, 
but  it  seemed  as  if  it  could  not  gain  permission. 

The  light  grew. 

And  with  the  light  the  laboured  breathing  became 
easier.  He  stirred  feebly,  and  whispered  incoherently 
from  time  to  time.  He  was  still  in  his  cell.  Went- 
worth's  name,  the  Italian  doctor's,  rose  to  his  lips. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  said  suddenly: 

"  The  Duke  is  dead.     She  will  come  now." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  He  was  waiting,  lis- 
tening. 

The  Bishop  and  Magdalen  held  their  breath.  Fay 
knew  at  last  what  it  is  to  fail  another.  She  had  failed 
Michael.  Wentworth  had  failed  her. 

"  Fay !  "  Michael  said,  "  come  soon." 

She  had  to  bear  it,  the  waiting,  the  faltered  anguish, 
the  suspense,  the  faint  reiterated  call  to  deaf  ears. 

The  Bishop  got  up  from  his  knees  beside  Michael, 
and  motioned  Fay  to  take  his  place.  She  went  timidly 
to  the  low  couch  and  knelt  down  by  it. 


PRISONERS  343 

"  Speak  to  him,"  said  the  Bishop  sternly. 

"Michael!"  she  said. 

He  knew  her.  All  other  voices  had  gone  from  him, 
but  hers  he  knew.  All  other  faces  had  faded  from  him, 
but  hers  he  knew.  He  looked  full  at  her.  Love 
stronger  than  death  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"  Fay,"  he  said  in  an  awed  voice — "  at  last." 

She  had  come  to  release  him,  after  the  Duke's  death, 
as  he  knew  she  would. 

She  leaned  her  white  cheek  a  moment  against  his  in 
speechless  self-abasement. 

He  whispered  to  her. 

"  Have  I  served  you  ?  " 

She  whispered  back,  "  Yes." 

He  whispered  again,  "  Do  you  still  love  me?  "  ^The 
words  were  quite  inaudible. 

Again  she  said,  "  Yes." 

Again  a  movement  of  the  lips,  but  no  sound. 

He  looked  at  her  with  radiant  questioning  eyes. 

Again  she  murmured,  "  Yes." 

It  had  to  be  like  that.  He  had  always  known  that 
this  moment  had  to  come.  Had  he  not  foreseen  it  in 
some  forgotten  dream? 

A  great  trembling  laid  hold  on  Michael,  and  then  a 
stillness  of  exceeding  joy. 

In  the  silence  the  cathedral  bells  chimed  out  sud- 
denly for  early  service.  The  sound  of  the  bells  came 
faintly  to  him  as  across  wide  water,  the  river  of  death 
widening  as  it  nears  the  sea.  It  was  all  part  of  his 
dream.  The  bells  of  Venice  were  rejoicing  with  him,  in 
this  his  blessed  hour. 

He  was  freed  at  last,  free  as  he  had  never  been,  free 


344  PRISONERS 

as  the  seagull  seen  through  the  bars  that  could  no  longer 
keep  him  back.  Useless  bars,  why  had  he  let  them  hold 
him  so  long?  He  was  out  and  away,  sailing  over  the 
sheening  water  in  a  boat  with  an  orange  sail ;  in  a  boat 
like  a  butterfly  with  spread  wings;  sailing  away,  past 
the  floating  islands,  past  that  pale  beautiful  grief  of 
sea  lavender — he  laughed  to  see  it  shine  so  beautiful — 
sailing  away  into  a  pearly  morning,  under  a  luminous 
sky. 

The  prison  was  far  away  now.  Left  behind.  There 
was  a  great  knocking  at  its  gates,  hurried  steps  upon 
the  stairs,  and  a  voice  crying  urgently  through  the 
bars. 

But  he  could  not  stay  to  listen.  He  was  too  far 
away  to  hear.  The  voice  was  to  him  but  like  the  thin 
harsh  cry  of  the  sea-mew  wheeling  near,  blended  in  with 
the  marvel  of  his  freedom.  He  took  no  heed  of  it.  He 
was  afloat  on  the  great  sea-faring  tide.  Far  away  be- 
fore him,  but  nearer,  nearer,  and  yet  nearer,  the  sea 
gleamed  in  trembling  ecstasy. 

"  He  does  not  know  me.  He  does  not  hear  me," 
said  Wentworth,  on  his  knees  beside  Michael,  raising  a 
wild,  desperate  face  to  Magdalen.  Was  Michael's  last 
look  of  deadly  hatred  to  remain  with  him  through 
life? 

"  Speak  to  him  again,  Fay,"  said  Magdalen.  "  Tell 
him  Wentworth  is  here." 

Fay  was  still  kneeling  on  the  other  side.  The  two 
lovers'  eyes  met  across  the  man  they  had  murdered. 

"  Michael,"  the  tremulous  voice  whispered. 

"  Louder,"  said  Wentworth  hoarsely. 


PRISONERS  345 

"  Michael,"  said  Fay  again. 

But  Michael's  face  was  set.  He  was  sunk  in  a  great 
rest,  breathing  deep  and  slow,  deeper  and  slower  yet, 
his  long  arms  faintly  rising  and  falling  with  each 
breath. 

"  Oh,  Fay.  For  God's  sake  make  him  hear,"  said 
Wentworth  with  a  cry. 

The  Bishop  and  Magdalen  standing  apart  looked  at 
each  other. 

"  He  has  forgiven  her,  though  he  does  not  know  it," 
he  said  below  his  breath. 

Fay  stooped  down.  She  raised  Michael  in  her  arms, 
and  laid  his  head  on  her  breast,  turning  his  fading  face 
to  his  brother. 

"  Michael,"  she  whispered  into  his  ear,  with  a  passion 
which  would  have  cloven  death  itself.  "  Come  back, 
come  back  and  say  one  word  to  Wentworth." 

Very  near  the  sea  now.  Very  near  the  great  peace 
and  light.  This  was  the  real  life  at  last.  All  the  rest 
had  been  a  vain  shadow,  a  prison  where  he  had  dwelt  a 
little  while,  not  seeing  that  this  great  all-surrounding 
water,  which  had  seemed  to  hem  him  in,  was  but  a  high- 
way of  light. 

Who  were  these  two  with  him  in  the  boat?  Who  but 
the  two  he  loved  best !  Who  but  Fay  and  Wentworth ! 
They  were  all  floating  on  together  in  exceeding  joy. 
They  were  very  near  him.  He  felt  them  one  on  each 
side,  but  the  light  was  so  great  that  he  could  not  see 
them.  His  head  was  on  Fay's  breast.  His  hand  was 
in  Wentworth's  hand.  It  was  all  as  in  dim  dreams  he 
had  longed  for  it  to  be. 


346  PRISONERS 

Fay's  voice  reached  him,  pressed  close  to  his  ear,  like 
the  sound  of  the  sea,  held  in  its  tiniest  shell. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  his  brother's  white  face  came 
to  him  for  a  moment,  like  sea  foam,  blown  in  from  the 
sea  of  love  to  which  he  was  going,  part  of  the  sea. 

"  Wenty !  "  he  said,  and  smiled  at  him. 

And  like  blown  foam  upon  a  breaking  wave,  the  face 
passed. 

And  like  the  whisper  in  the  shell  under  the  hush  of 
the  surge,  the  voice  passed. 

The  shadow  which  we  call  life — passed. 


THE    END 


A     000126506     5 


